


Amongst the Stars

by onion_soup



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Druid Keith (Voltron), General Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, I have no regrets, Kuron Never Happened, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lotor (Voltron), Slow Burn, Team as Family, and i love them, kinda sad ending, there is no voltron, these idiots are very gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24931555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onion_soup/pseuds/onion_soup
Summary: A low growl interrupts him, “We ask the questions here,” Brux snarls. “Now tell me, where is the Blade of Marmora.”Keith would’ve laughed if he wasn’t scared half to death. This entire situation is nothing short of comical, regardless of the obvious threat to his life: he had been abducted by two aliens, could suddenly understand them after not being able to, and now they were asking seemingly meaningless questions that he can’t even begin to comprehend.He wasn’t able to reply before something hard hit the side of his head, his vision fading to black. Even if he did, Keith didn’t know what he would say. The entire situation is absurd, and he’d likely wake up in his poor excuse for a bed any moment now, this whole scenario being a wild dream.It was not a dream.(AU where there is no Voltron, Keith gets abducted, and Lotor wants another General)
Relationships: Ezor/Zethrid (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Lotor (Voltron), Lotor & Narti (Voltron)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 204





	1. A Grape and a Blueberry Abduct a Skinny 9-year-old

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Enemy of My Enemy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12544956) by [Talinor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talinor/pseuds/Talinor). 



> Basically, I wrote my take on how the fic above would continue, and butchered it in the process. If you're reading this, I _strongly_ suggest that you check out Talinor's fics, they're all amazing! Enjoy!

Aliens. That was the only explanation.

While Keith is a firm believer of extraterrestrial life, he never thought that he’d be witness to the existence of aliens, let alone possibly the first human to discover them.

The walls of his minuscule shack shakes in protest as a sleek fighter plane lands adjacent to the house, blasting the walls with the force of its thrusters. Keith takes in the sight of streamlined metal, the dark grey interrupted by a crimson glow forming a symbol on the front of the jet, all jagged edges and hard lines. The lines extend on the front of the wings, accenting the sharp shape.

Keith watches from where he sits ducked down underneath one of the few windows, fighting to keep his breath steady as two very tall and broad people climbed out of the craft and sauntered towards the entrance to his home.  
Even from this distance, Keith can tell that they’re not any normal person. Although still humanoid, the aliens are significantly taller than any human he’s ever encountered, skin devoid of any familiar warm tones.

He clamps a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stifle his breathing, letting the beating of his heart thundering in his ears wash over him. Its erratic thumps sounding like a drum in the abrupt silence and does nothing to stifle his nerves. The adrenaline pumping through his veins doesn’t help either, only pushing him grip his knife tighter. Its warm metal is comforting, even as the two individuals creep closer to the only entrance and exit in the compact building. 

He could hear their voices now. Muffled as they are, Keith couldn’t begin to hope to interpret them. He has a suspicion that he wouldn’t be able to understand them even if he stands right next to them.

As the first person - extraterrestrial? - pushes open the door, Keith launches himself at them, blade swinging in a sweeping arch. The person barks what must’ve been a curse as they leap to the side and grabbed his arm, their crushing grip on his wrist forcing him to release the blade. 

He drops it with a yelp, thrashing in the alien’s grasp. As Keith was lifted off the ground by a single hand that easily encased both his wrists together, thrashing and kicking, he was able to get a better look at his captors.

The one holding him seems to be carved from stone. His skin a purple-grey, the fur on his face lengthening the closer it gets to his ears, which sit on the top of his head like a bat’s. He had no visible pupil or iris, and his sclera was a pale yellow.

Unlike his companion whose armor was an eggplant purple embellished with the same burgundy symbol as the one on the plane, the alien’s armor was adorned with an auburn chest plate with vague flax yellow markings. The patches of auburn armor wrapped around his waist, just above his hips that seem to jut out from the regular grey color. His calves were engulfed in the same color, along with the armor on his wrist that extends to his knuckles.

Keith’s captor barked what sounded like a command, but it wasn’t in any language that Keith could understand. It didn’t even sound like any human language, with harsh vowels, sounding more like rocks grinding together than an actual phrase. His lips were pulled up in a snarl, revealing sharp, elongated canines, each as long and as thick as one of his thumbs. 

Keith continued to thrash and kick, landing feeble blows to the alien’s torso. Seen as small even by human standards, he was tiny compared to the two people who stood in front of him. 

“Let go!” Keith shrieks, “what do you-” his squawk was cut off as he’s dropped to the ground in a heap, sharp bursts of pain snaking through his back side. 

While he’s scrambling to stand up, Keith’s limbs shake with protest, leaving him to be pinned down by the other alien. 

They look similar to his companion, only with slightly bluer skin and sharper features. His new captor regards him with mild interest, yellow eyes sweeping over his face before glancing to the fallen blade. Their eyes widen near-imperceivably before narrowing, his grip on Keith’s shoulder tightening painfully.

The bluer alien growled something at Keith, the guttural sounds sending tremors down his spine. Keith winced as the purple-grey alien shouted something at him, clearly wanting a response.

“W-what?” Keith sputtered, “I-I’m sorry, but I don’t understand!”

The large hand that curled around his shoulder tightened again before moving to wrap around his bicep, sharp claws piercing soft flesh. As he was dragged towards the ship, Keith’s struggling starts anew, limbs thrashing, shrieking broken cries at the top of his lungs. The blue alien let out what sounded like a grunt of irritation, while his purple companion sneered at him, lips curling in a contemptuous smile. 

They exchanged a few more words, and the broader alien went back to gingerly pick up the fallen knife, removing the scraps of fabric wrapped around the hilt, revealing the glowing indigo symbol engraved on the hilt. If not for the situation, it would have been comical how wide his eyes grew, his face becoming the pinnacle of incredulity. 

Keith and his holder had already reached the ship when the other alien called out, waving the knife around, to which the blue alien responded with what was probably a few short words, but to Keith they sounded closer to differently pitched growls.

Regardless of having no idea what they were saying, Keith opened his mouth to ask what was going on, or who they were, or something that would give him a better perception of what was happening, what would happen to him, but the boy was interrupted when he was abruptly flipped onto his stomach with a yelp.

From where he was unceremoniously pressed against the side of the ship, Keith could hardly turn his head to look at his perpetrators, let alone shift his body to properly face them. 

The only warnings he had was the sharp bark behind him and the slight tightening of the hand bracing him against the ship. But neither allowed him the opportunity to escape before he felt a sharp pain against the back of his head and his vision faded to black.

\- 

Keith woke up to a faint throbbing in the back of his head, accompanied by a sharp, searing pain directly behind and below his left ear.

Wincing, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The coal colored walls where lined with the same crimson glow as the exterior of the ship, and he could feel the coldness of the metal floor even through his clothes from where he lay on his side. A pair of metal boots lay in the middle of his vision, and he tilted his head up to meet the narrowed glare of the purple alien. 

As he wearily pushed himself to a sitting position, he scowled at his captor, steeling his emotions in a weak attempt to hide his panic and fear. 

“What the hell do you want,” he rasps, and flinches when the alien responded.

“A primitive such as yourself could never our intentions,” he sneered back.

“W-what?” Keith yelped, “I can understand you?” This earned him a short huff of amusement from the other alien before he turned to his companion.

“Let’s just start the interrogation,” The words sent a new wave of panic through Keith, a whimper crawling its way from the back of his throat.

“Hmm, I guess,” the purple one hummed, crouching before where Keith lay and slamming his hand into the wall behind his head. The gesture is unnecessary, considering that Keith is already scared shitless, but the alien seems all too willing to indulge in this moment.

“I doubt a pathetic creature such as yourself would understand the concept of a name, but I’m feel particularly generous today. I am general Zandav, commander of fleet Y-89.” His eyes briefly glanced at his companion before returning to look at Keith’s. “And this is Colonel Brux.”

Alright, so the grape is Zandav and the blueberry is Brux. He could work with that.

Brux stepped closer, his hard features twisted into an expression of vague amusement. “From now on, you are the property of the Galran Empire. Any attempt to escape will be a sign of treason, and if you are useless, you will be executed,” willow blue lips twist into a wry smile, “So, unless you wish to be part of the next batch of meat for the troops, I suggest you obey all orders given to you.”

In a feeble attempt to hide his ever-growing fear, Keith swallowed down the lump forming in his throat, sending them a scathing glare. “What do you want from me? H-how can I understand you? This makes no sense!” He paused, Brux’s earlier words finally sinking in, “Empire? Galran? Wha-”

A low growl interrupts him, “We ask the questions here,” Brux snarls. “Now tell me, where is the Blade of Marmora.”

Keith would’ve laughed if he wasn’t scared half to death. This entire situation would be nothing short of comical, regardless of the obvious threat to his life: he had been abducted by two aliens, could suddenly understand them after not being able to, and now they were asking seemingly meaningless questions that he can’t even begin to comprehend. 

With an air of faux calm, Keith replied, “Look, I don’t know what the Blade of Marmalade is, and honestly you’ll be better off interrogating a less ‘primitive’ species.”

Zandav let out a humorless laugh, “You’re good at playing dumb, I’ll give you that.” He then pulled out Keith’s knife, grinning like he won the lottery as he did. “But if you don’t know what the Blade of Marmora is, then how do you have this?”

It wouldn’t hurt to tell the truth, he supposes. Keith doesn’t think that the aliens are the kinds of people to sympathize with others, considering how they literally kidnapped him. 

“It was my mother’s.”

The words got an instant reaction, the two ‘Galrans’ barking questions so fast that whatever allowed him to understand them couldn’t keep up.

Ah. So _that_ was what was embedded in his ear. Keith had heard of devices people could wear that allowed them to understand others even if they were speaking a foreign language, but there were only prototypes present. Apparently, these people have already figured it out.

He was questioned for what felt like hours, but with the never-changing lighting and scenery of the inside of the ship, Keith couldn’t know for sure. What he did know, was that his two captors were growing increasingly pissed off, their mouths curled into snarls more often than not.

“It’s useless,” Brux growled, throwing his arms into the air in an alarmingly human gesture, “he obviously doesn’t know anything.”

“Well it would be a shame to kill him,” Zandav replied, yellow sclera and lack of pupils making it difficult for Keith to discern whether he was looking at him or not, “it took far too long to get to this backwater planet.”

Brux hums in contemplation, “Should we give him to the druids? They take pleasure in playing with foreign species.”

Zandav winced, barely, but it was there. “That would require actually meeting with one of them, and I don’t know about you, but I rather stay as far away from them as possible.”

Keith had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, but judging on Zandav’s reactions, he much rather not be handed off to the ‘druids’, whoever they are. 

“He’ll be better serving some high-ranking commander in need of entertainment,” Zandav continued, “I heard that Sendak likes collecting strange species.”

Brux let out a humorless laugh, “Sadistic bastard.” Turning to address Keith once more he continued, “alright, you’ll probably end up being passed from one commander to another, ugly thing you are, but it’s better than being ground into meat and fed to the yalex.”

Keith didn’t know what a yalex is but being grinded into meat wasn’t a particular fate that held his favor, the words sending a shiver down his spine.

“However,” he chuckled, “that is still an option.”

He wasn’t able to reply before something hard hit the side of his head, his vision fading to black. Even if he did, Keith didn’t know what he would say. The entire situation was absurd, and he’d likely wake up in his poor excuse for a bed any moment now, this whole scenario being a wild dream.

It was not a dream.


	2. A Pretty Space Elf Prince Messes With Things When He Probably Shouldn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amethyst eyes flit over his face, the hard stare trailing to look him up and down before returning to his face, “A truth.” The reply is monotonous, bland. And yet, Lotor has to repress a shiver at the tenor of their voice.
> 
> While the prisoner’s eyes may seem normal to most people – though they may note the peculiar shade of purple – Lotor could see that most couldn’t: the faint of trace of power hidden behind a cage of flesh and bone, waiting like a predator ready to pounce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is literally Talinor's fic, Enemy of my Enemy so yeah

Lotor saunters down the prison hall, the scuff of his boots the only evidence of his arrival.

The hallway is bordered by rows of cells on either side, each one containing some formerly rebellious soul that had fallen victim to the clutches of the Empire. Most of them cower from his gaze, pressing themselves to the far side of the cell as if they could melt into the wall.

Even through his façade of indifference, Lotor couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the poor souls. He supposes he’s just like them, just another victim in the face of his father’s Empire, but imprisoned in a different kind of chains, ones that had lasted over 10,000 decapheobs. 

The constant hum of the ship is only interrupted by the gun fire on the floors above, his surroundings swathed in a familiar purple hue. Lotor could respect the attempt of uniformity through a specific color scheme, but after residing in the amethyst environment for his entire life, he supposes he has the right to be tired of it.

Violet light is everywhere, casting the malnourished and scarred faces of the prisoners in harsh luster, making both angles and features sharper. The eyes of the individuals who had, unwillingly, made their home here are blank, devoid of any spark or hint of challenge.

It’s tiring. _Disappointing._

Those who aren’t making futile attempts to sink into the wall, flinch from his gaze, turning their eyes to the ground streaked with blood of a multitude of races. The multi-colored splotches are interrupted by streaks of dirt, and rarely the cool metal of the ship.

Despair and anguish are heavy in the air, the atmosphere infested with the feeling of hopelessness. The ones that don’t cower glare at him with seething rage, leaving him with the distinct impression that they are imagining wrapping their hands around his throat.

The gun fire and sounds of battle cut cease, indicating that his Generals had finally completed their task.

“Has the security been taken care of?” he asks, switching on his comms. 

“Yep!” came Ezor’s chipper reply, “Zethrid’s just taking care of the last of them.” Distantly through the comms, he could hear a roar of victory, no doubt from the vicious General. “Have you retrieved our new friend yet?”

“Soon,” he answers, continuing his casual pace down the stretch of hallway, “Narti, would you be a dear and persuade our _oh-so-kind_ host to open all the doors on this level? Preferably using a method that’s not too messy.”

Though he supposes the head slave trader deserves it, for the imprisonment of so many lives. Sa knows he rather be dead than left in a cell to rot.

“After that,” he continues, “you can dispose of him.” Narti doesn’t respond, but that is to be expected. “The rest of you, dispense the GAC, weapons, and supplies amongst the prisoners and set the ship’s course towards the nearest allied planet.”

A chorus of confirmation reaches him through the comms before he switches them off, turning his attention towards what may lay ahead.

When Lotor had first heard of Haggar’s most precious experiment, he couldn’t deny that he was… intrigued. While it’s quite common for the Witch to take interest in foreign races and new species, her attentions are fleeting, lasting mere movements.

This… this is different.

Haggar had spent _decapheobs_ working with her newest test subject, before finally passing it off to the nearest prison ship, left under the ever-watchful eyes of her druids. It was only by some stroke of luck that Lotor was able to access the ship, as the druids were called away to better aid the Empire as a result of the more frequent and successful rebel attacks.

Tales of Haggar’s experiment describes it as an enigmatic creature, secretive beyond belief and unfathomably deadly. Each tale was more ludicrous than the last, leaving the experiment alienized and depicted as an untamable beast: something that could rob you of your memories by making eye contact, a creature that would consume your very soul with a mere brush of skin.

Each story ended with the same result, something that had obviously been intended to be something akin to heroism: Haggar and her druids had finally ‘domesticated’ it, discarding it to rot away in some distant corner of the Empire.

So, naturally, he was intrigued. After all, it seemed a waste to leave such a powerful individual on the sidelines. 

Lotor has enough sense to not believe all that he hears from the average imperial grunt, since a being that powerful would have never been disregarded by the Witch. Regardless of common sense, he couldn’t help but wonder.

A part of him almost hopes the stories to be true.

Though, when he had investigated further, through stealing and interpreting the druid’s many notes and data. All of the information he was able to access didn’t give him much to work with, but it was enough to piece together some idea of what he’s working with:

Prisoner 5307 is not some personified nightmare, a creature akin to both violence and shadows. They weren’t found on some inhabitable planet, the sole survivor of some long extinct race.

No, prisoner 5307 is a person, abducted from some primitive planet when the boy hadn’t even reached his tenth decapheob, or his home planet’s equivalent. After being passed from commander to commander, all failing to extinguish the flame of his defiance, the boy was passed to the druids and Haggar in hopes of finding something useful.

Apparently, during his time in the Witch’s grasp, something truly remarkable was found in the boy. So valuable, that Haggar took personal interest in him.

It was more than just his Galra heritage, discovered by the commanders he was passed along. All has reported fits of violence amongst the displays of defiance, the prisoner transforming into the very race that kept him captive. No, something else had caught the Witch’s attention, something so unique that she spent decapheobs personally studying him.

Lotor, like many others, had numerous questions about the boy - now a man - but no way to indulge in his curiosity.

Lotor breaks from his ponderings as he reaches the end of the hallway, facing the large metal door that greets him. They’re surrounded by magenta particle barriers, the energy feilds glowing brighter than the rest of the ship’s lights. As he scrutinizes it further, he notices the glowing runes engraved on the dark surface, a slightly different shade than the energy barriers. 

_Ah,_ those may be a nuisance.

The promise of his curiosity finally sated is enough for Lotor to pace with anticipation, only stopping when the energy fields surrounding the doors dissipate like a lone flame in the wind.

It was no doubt Narti’s doing, from where he had placed her in the main command center. 

The numerous locks on the door took longer, levels and layers that remain concealed from his gaze unlocking in tandem. Meanwhile, the doors on all the prison cells unlocked, doors swinging automatically. The – unwilling – residents venture out hesitantly, sending weary glances and hateful glares.

“Don’t worry,” Lotor assures them in short, broken sentences: “We mean you no harm. We want to help you. Go to the upper levels, you’ll receive supplies there.”

Taking a breath, he continues in a much softer tone, “You’ll be free.”

The word is echoed amongst the former prisoners, a breath whispered as if a prayer. Lotor watches as hope - albeit wary – sparks in their eyes. They move as one, dragging the more cautious ones towards the upper levels.

Finally alone, Lotor faces the door, raising a hand before him. Honerva hadn’t taught him much before she died, but it was enough for him to extend her teachings to learn how to deal with the wards. If only his mother could see him how: about to release one of the Empire’s deadliest experiments.

The purple wards lighten to a pale shade, unraveling into strains of coiling quintessence under his careful magic. All the remaining locks had clicked open but remain unacknowledged until Lotor finished dispersing the magic. He couldn’t afford another incident, as his entire concentration was required to dismiss the spells.

Fortunately, he managed to avoid being blown up by his own magic, releasing a tense breath when he finally finished.

Steeling his emotions, he pushes the door open to reveal the dark room.

The first thing Lotor notices is the sheer amount of restraints on the prisoner, the amount easily trumping what he had seen before. It didn’t really surprise him, but he couldn’t help the pang of sympathy when he observed the drastic degree that was taken in hindering the unfortunate soul.

Wide, bulky chains are clamped over both of the prisoner’s arms, the thickness of them dwarfing the man’s lithe figure significantly. On the skin that Lotor could see, not covered by the normal prisoner rags or restraints, scars are scattered stars on pale flesh. Some red and newer, while others are faded, remaining slightly darker as if a reminder of the hardships survived.

The prisoner garb is loose on the man, not too unlike a child that had tried on their older sibling’s clothes. Connecting the clasps coiled around the stranger’s arms to the ceiling are glowing purple chains, joining together to form one glowing mass at the top. This leaves the man in a forced kneeling position, calves anchored to the floor and arms reaching high above his head.

On said head is a mop of black hair, falling unkept over the man’s face. While the prisoner’s hair is long, it isn’t enough to cover the thick metal collar hung around his neck. Its surface is engraved with the same runes similar to the ones just outside the door. Wards also line the walls of the room, casting Lotor’s surroundings into a familiar purple glow.

The prisoner hadn’t moved the entire time Lotor was there, hair still cascading over their face. He takes the prolonged silence to observe the man’s figure closer: the coils of lean muscle wrapping around a lithe frame suggesting a fast and agile fighter.

“Enjoy the view?” a voice questioned, raspy from lack of use.

The prisoner finally lifts their head to meet Lotor’s gaze, raven hair parting to reveal his face. Lotor was taken aback by the graceful beauty residing in the prisoner’s visage, features laced with subtle exhaustion that did nothing to diminish how positively _enchanting_ the stranger looks.

He’s pretty, that much is undeniable, pale features at odds with locks of inky black hair. Lotor didn’t know how he stands with the standards of beauty of the prisoner’s home world, but he was considered nothing short of stunning according to Galran standards. But, the prisoner’s features simply can’t compare to the sight of midnight eyes.

Lotor had thought he was sick of the color purple. Though in moderation, the hue is quite pleasant, but in the sheer scale in which the Empire uses it, the vibrant color becomes dull and repetitive.

Or… so he thought. So he thought, because Lotor finds himself lost in the depths of violet eyes, eyes that he wouldn’t studying for another ten thousand decapheobs.

It was in those brilliant eyes that reflected what the prisoner thought of this entire situation. He looked upon the world as if he couldn’t care less about his own death, let alone Lotor’s presence. Although, considering the decapheobs of torture he had went through, it wasn’t exactly surprising that he wouldn’t be fazed by most things. 

“Go on, take a picture. It’ll last longer,” he continues to drawl, “and if you’re here to kill me, may I suggest that you make it fast?”

_Suggest._ The word is nothing less than a command, a growled order to the very person that holds the prisoner at his mercy. Most others would be pleading for a swift death, a final mercy granted by an enemy so easily hated. But not _him._

The prisoner meets Lotor’s gaze with a look of pure defiance, an opposition to Lotor’s very being. Violet eyes are alight with challenge, racing with the promise of a fight. 

He has to admit, it’s refreshing.

“I assure you,” Lotor smirks, “I mean no harm.” He meets that defiant gaze with absolute confidence, letting his expression melt into something bordering on cocky.

Amethyst eyes flit over his face, the hard stare trailing to look him up and down before returning to his face, “A truth.” The reply is monotonous, bland. And yet, Lotor has to repress a shiver at the tenor of their voice.

While the prisoner’s eyes may seem normal to most people – though they may note the peculiar shade of purple – Lotor could see that most couldn’t: the faint of trace of power hidden behind a cage of flesh and bone, waiting like a predator ready to pounce.

The man’s eyes radiate an air of something _more_ , of something indescribably foreign beneath his skin. Whatever it is, however foreign, it’s distinctly familiar, something his subconscious recognizes and yet he couldn’t begin to discern whatever entity lays beneath the surface. It’s familiar and yet…

…yet every instinct screams at him to _run._

“But you’re also swathed with secrets and half-truths,” the man continues. “So, tell me _Prince Lotor,_ what do you truly want with a lovely little experiment like me?”

Lotor opens his mouth to reply, but was interrupted as the prisoner drones on, “Would I serve as entertainment? A weapon to aid the Empire’s ‘expansion’? Or…” plump lips curl into a wry smirk, “a weapon to use against them?”

The prisoner raises an unimpressed brow at Lotor’s following chuckle. He certainly knows more then what Lotor had revealed, how, he has no idea. Though, he supposes he may as well find out soon.

“Frankly, you could rid my father of his head and mount it on the wall and I wouldn’t bat an eye,” he purrs, “and while the idea of free entertainment is tempting, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

That’s a lie. He would never be so crass as to use another sentient being as entertainment, not even one as stunning as the man that kneels before him now. That being said, Lotor throws away his remaining hesitation and begins undoing the restraints on the prisoner’s hands, making his way down his arm.

He doesn’t fail to note the subtle shift in the prisoner’s expression: pure apathy melting into vague interest. Good.

“I am not here to endanger your life further,” Lotor states, finishing with the prisoner’s right arm and moving to undo the left, “as I said earlier, I mean you no harm.”

When they don’t reply, he continues, “No, I’m here to recruit you.”

“Recruit me?” the man parrots, a glimmer of confusion breaking through his mask of indifference.

“Indeed,” Lotor purrs. “To be succinct, I am in need of another General, and I believe that you could fill the role quite well.” He finishes with the stranger’s left arm, dropping the slabs of metal to the floor with a clang. 

Once his arms are freed, the prisoner stretches their arms above their head, almost as if he had woken from a long nap rather than been unchained for the first time in what was probably decapheobs. After observing his hands with mild interest, he eventually turns his attention back to the Prince.

“That’s not all, is it?”

Lotor only smirks and steps forward, letting his magic brush up to the wards engraved into the man’s collar, reaching out to brace a hand against the cool metal. The vague interest in the prisoner’s eyes transforms into genuine intrigue. 

“Altean magic?” the man muses out loud, voice rife with wonder. “Who taught you this when Altea was destroyed 10,000 decapheobs ago?”

Lotor didn’t respond, too busy focusing on the task at hand. It wasn’t as complicated as the doors, considering that he didn’t have to disperse the magic, only having to manipulate it to complete a task. To _open_. Once he had finished the difficult part and he only had to wait for his magic to do its work, he turned his attention back to the man kneeling before him. 

“I’m surprised that you know of that.” He answers absently, brows furrowing as his energy gradually drains.

A short huff of laughter, mirth dancing along the words, “Hmm, how might I know indeed.”

Part of Lotor couldn’t help but wonder what he means by _that,_ whether it’s an allusion to the mysterious power the man holds on a tight leash, or something else. The reports regarding the prisoner’s home world and current location were hard enough to access, meaning that getting to Haggar’s personal data concerning the powers and abilities of her experiments would be near impossible.

Just as the Prince entertains the prospect of asking, the man decides to indulge his curiosity: “There’s constant gossip, along with rumors. Your heritage is common knowledge. Your actions and ability with old Altean magic only reinforce what I already know.”

“Though,” he continues, “I had thought that all the Alteans were killed back then… apparently not.”

Lotor snorts, “Apparently not, indeed.”

There’s a short moment of silence, where Lotor directs more of his attention to his magic. Eventually, he turns his head to look the prisoner in the eyes once more, “Rumors are quite hard to come by in a prison cell. Especially one like this.” He absently waves his free hand at their surroundings. 

Apparently, the man isn’t going to deign to grant him a response, a smirk playing at his lips as the collar around his neck clicked open on the prince’s command. Immediately, the intensity of the power shifting beneath the prisoner’s skin increases drastically, causing Lotor to take a small step back in alarm.

The purple in the man’s eyes seemed to be alive, moving like molten metal. All the dormant power springs to life, shifting beneath the man’s skin like a predator waiting to pounce. Swallowing down his apprehension, Lotor squares his shoulders and meets the predator-like stare of the man before him.

“As I’ve stated earlier, I wish to recruit you,” extending a hand to the prisoner, he resumes, “You will join me and my companions, a group of allied half-Galra just like you and I. We’ll serve as your protection, and in turn you’ll aid us with the removal of my father from his throne.”

This catches the man’s attention, violet eyes widening before he masks his expression, but not fast enough to avoid Lotor noticing the subtle change.

“You seem quite certain I’ll accept. What happens if I refuse?”

Lotor shrugs, “Then I would respect your decision. Like the rest of the individuals on this ship you will be sent to the nearest allied planet with the promise of freedom and a new life. Of course, you’d be on the run for the rest of your life, and I doubt you’d manage to last long before Haggar finds you again.”

The stranger remains silent, eyes narrowed, and mouth twisting into a scowl.

“And you’ll end up never seeing me ever again,” Lotor couldn’t help but add with a wink, “So…?”

Though the prisoner’s expression deadens further, repressed amusement dances in those elegant eyes. Said eyes are currently searching Lotor’s face as if he could find answers there. 

Apparently, the man found the answers he sought as he sighs and takes Lotor’s hand in his own, “Sure why not? I suppose Axca’s done with gathering the intel by now,” he muses, smirk growing at Lotor’s widened eyes, “Oh, and my name’s Keith.”

After the initial widening of his eyes that had slipped past his carefully crafted visage, Lotor’s blink is his only sign of surprise. Eventually, his shock melts into something far more amused. Yes, this was a good decision after all.

“Well Keith,” Lotor says, trying out the peculiar name, “welcome to the team. The rest of your restraints will take barely a dobash.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Keith responds as the clamps around his calves undid themselves, moving as if invisible hands had released them. He stands in a smooth movement, surprising considering how’d he’d been chained up for Sa knows how long.

Lotor’s newest General sends him a mischievous smirk over his shoulder as he saunters forwards, voice taking on a playful purr, “Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am really bad at grammar and spelling. 
> 
> Microsoft Word also hates me.


	3. I could photosynthesize if I tried hard enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hello, Keith._ The sentence was simple, boring even, but it was enough to warrant a startled laugh from him. Keith doesn’t remember the last time he laughed, genuinely laughed, not the harsh sarcastic bark that left him when he wanted to give the Druids an extra hard time.
> 
> It felt good. Hell, amazing even. 
> 
> Because for the first time he was face to face with someone who had experienced what he had. Someone who had been stripped apart and put back together into something unrecognizable. Who had a similar ability and wasn’t a complete and utter _monster._

He follows the Prince through the empty hallways, thrumming with the gentle hum of the ship’s engines. Lotor is quite skilled at hiding his emotions, repressing them until his expression is unaffected, but there is only so much one could hide from a telepath.

Keith lets his consciousness brush up against Lotor’s mind, just enough to feel his hidden emotions and to catch some runaway thoughts, but not enough for the Prince to subconsciously realize that something’s amiss.

Surprise dissipates into confusion, surrounded by a wariness. Good, at least the Prince isn’t entirely insane for letting him loose. The man moves like a warrior, every motion smooth and fluid. It is more of a dance than a stroll, each step graceful and poised.

Though his frame is leaner than most other Galra, the half breed moves with repressed strength. Keith suspects that it may be a result of the Prince’s Altean genes, after all, listening in on the guards hadn’t been _entirely_ useless.

Lotor’s lean build suggests a fast and agile fighter, with that combined with his Altean strength, the older Galra would most certainly be a challenging opponent. 

Keith stole another glace at where the Prince walks beside him, observing how lilac skin is cast into a deeper purple from the glowing lights lining the ship. Lotor’s shimmering white hair an alarming contrast in comparison to their darkened surroundings.

Keith could feel confusion in the Prince’s mind, the entirety of the emotion just outside of the telepath’s grasp. Pushing a bit more, the question rang out unheard by all except for him:

_If he could undo his restraints the entire time, why did he wait?_

The thought is accompanied by a faint sense of wonder, along with more caution. There was an underlying feeling of fatigue that the other is struggling to hide, probably a result of disabling the wards. 

Physically, Lotor shows no signs of his drowsiness, and frankly, Keith is impressed that the Prince was able to hide it for this long. The taller Galra was just about to ask his question when Keith broke the silence.

“The collar,” he starts, Lotor looking at him questionably, “it was blocking my powers. When you removed it, I was able to remove the rest of the restraints.” The sensation of understanding radiates from the Prince, though it faded fast, replaced by a new emotion.

_Intrigue._

The sentiment slams into Keith’s consciousness, so fierce that he almost stumbles.

Lotor is intense in all the ways the druids are not. The druids, while powerful, are devoid of life, empty shells of what they once were. Their emotions are diluted, a result of the ritual meant to give them the ability to manipulate quintessence, amongst other things.

If the druids’ emotions are empty, faded things, then Lotor is _vibrant._ Filled with layers upon layers of feelings and emotions Keith couldn’t begin to comprehend.

The Prince’s mind is pervaded with knowledge. Sure, it was obvious that he was a skilled warrior, but his mind is possibly his most deadly weapon.

Lotor draws his attention like no other. This is evident by how Keith’s gaze is constantly drifting to the Prince, as if the man was demanding his attention merely by existing. Compared to him, all others become bland and unsavory. 

There was one who had drawn his focus like this before. An old friend, from a planet that served as his home so long ago. Shiro had been one of the only people who he had called a friend - a brother even - and one of the fewer who he had felt that he could trust unconditionally. 

Something about him shone above all others, whether it was because of his smile, or how no matter what Keith did - that would have anyone else abandoning him in an instant - Shiro always was there by his side. Keith’s entire world had revolved around Shiro, like he was the sun and Keith were just another planet caught in his orbit.

If Shiro’s pull had been one of a star’s, then Lotor’s is nothing less than a black hole, consuming all of Keith’s attention. The Prince is complex on a level that made Keith want nothing more than to dive into his mind and unravel and interpret and _understand._

This of course, is only amplified by how pretty he is.

Lotor mulls over the new information silently, gears practically turning in his head.

_The collar,_ his mind supplies and - _Oh?_ \- the timbre of his voice is present even mentally, _it must collaborate with the remaining wards in the room to create the perfect prison._

It’s unnerving – _fascinating_ \- how quickly he comes up with the answer, making sense of what had taken Keith at least several hours to figure out, in mere seconds. Although in his defense, he had other things on his mind at the time. 

_It prevents him from using his powers, whatever they are_ \- this is accompanied by a faint sense of amusement, though what had warranted it remained unbeknownst to Keith- _while being aided by the wards._

Lotor continues to ponder the implications of Keith’s imprisonment internally, fingers drumming an idle rhythm as they continue down the stretch of hallway.

The Prince goes through all the possible escape routes with alarming accuracy, reflecting on the methods that Keith had previously used to escape: waiting until either the spells on the collar or engraved into the prison itself wore off over time, making it slightly easier for him to overpower the dampener on his own abilities, or – his favorite – playing dead or using another method that led to either the druids or the guards removing the collar. 

Needless to say, all his attempts eventually failed.

“There’s no way for you to escape successfully without outside help,” the Prince murmurs. Keith knows it’s all a front - for whatever reason, he doesn’t know - since Lotor had already determined it to be true.

He hums in affirmation.

“Well,” Lotor purrs, a tad too quick for someone who had apparently just figured it out, “I suppose it’s a good thing I provided it.”

Keith sends him a sidelong glance, finding the Prince already looking at him. The cobalt blue of his eyes is a startling contrast to his yellow sclera. 

Deciding not to reply, he casts his awareness outwards like a net, sensing a presence behind them, and approaching fast.

Her mind is exuberant, practically oozing a presence of cheerful glee that could turn deadly in an instant. When he pushed a bit further, in order to understand her intentions, he was bombarded by a barrage of thoughts, with one more prominent than others:

_Is that the new recruit? Sa’s sake, he. Is. So. CUTE._

Bristling with irritation, Keith searches for something of more importance.

_Ok, but why is he so small? He’s practically tiny! GOD’S ABOVE IS HE A KID!! Are we gonna raise a kid?! I’m too young to be a mom!_

Evidently, his powers don’t understand such an arbitrary notion.

The person is almost right behind them, currently lamenting a situation that has yet to happen, despite Keith not hearing nor seeing anything. Him and Lotor are still traveling at the same casual pace, but he has a distinct impression that the Prince is just as aware as Keith is of their new companion. 

Regardless of sensing no ill intent, just as they were about to place a hand on his shoulder, he doesn’t hesitate to yank on her arm, throwing his weight forward and sending the woman crashing to the floor before him.

A cry of alarm matched the pang of shock he felt from his assailant, accompanied by her wide turquoise eyes and parted lips. Her skin is a coral orange, with an arrowhead shape that sloped from her forehead and down her nose, matching the yellow color of her sclera.

_Whoa ok then, don’t mess with the tiny angry child._

“I’m not a child.” Keith growls tersely, irritation surging. The woman- _Ezor_ , Lotor supplies, albeit unwillingly- blinks at him owlishly before breaking into a grin, leaping to her feet. She was dressed in the same orange and blue-accented armor as Lotor, minus the short cape that hung off his hips. 

“Sorry about that,” she says sheepishly, looking off to the side. “But you are awfully short. Especially for a Galra...” she trails off, giving Keith a quick glance up and down, no doubt noticing his general lack of… purpleness along with his height, “You… you are Galra right?”

He sighs, “My height is completely average for my father’s race-”

(he’s on the short side but they don’t need to know that)

“Yes, he is Galra.” Lotor interrupts, sending an amused glance at the two of them. “Just as Galra as you and I.”

_A half-breed_ , are the words that go unspoken.

The Prince turns to Keith, smile broadening as he gestures to Ezor. “Keith meet Ezor, one of my most trusted generals. Please ignore her antics, she means no harm.” 

Ezor sends him a blinding grin, to which he responds with a clipped nod. His curtness doesn’t seem to discourage her, as she breaks into a lengthy explanation of what he assumes is the battle that led up to his newfound freedom.

Keith lets her constant chatter fade to mingle with the hum of the ship’s engines.

Talking to people like Ezor is easy, since all he has to do is hum in agreement and nod his head at certain times, while she maintains the flow of the conversation. 

Unfortunately, he was broken away from his task of getting a feel of his two companion’s feelings - mostly out of boredom since he couldn’t detect any immediate hostility from them - when Ezor takes to directly questioning him.

“Sooooo…” she starts. Keith remains quiet, not knowing how he should respond to the extended word. He settles for a raised brow in lieu of a verbal reply.

“…how’d you know I was there?” Ezor finishes, sheepishly referring to how they met earlier. “Because I was invisible, and most people can’t see invisible things, and I’m pretty sure I was quiet, but then maybe you have super hearing so hopefully it wasn’t my fault for being caught, so I’m just wondering what gave it-”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He interrupts her rambling. Keith could feel the curiosity emanating from her, and wonders what the best way for him to explain it would be. “I could sense your mind, along with your feelings,” experiencing her surprise rather than witnessing it on her features, he continues, “it wasn’t that I could physically hear you, I could sense your incoming presence.” 

_“Along with read some of your thoughts,”_ goes unsaid. 

Ezor released a sigh of relief, “Oh thank Sa, I thought I had lost my touch.” She stops abruptly, turning her entire body to face him, “Wait, how’d you know that I called you a child?”

Beside him, Lotor lets out a huff of exasperation before gesturing for Ezor to continue walking. “You decide to ask that now, Ezor?”

“Hey, I was more preoccupied with how tiny he is!” she cried out, gesturing wildly at Keith. “I mean, look at him! He doesn’t even reach your shoulders!”

Scowl deepening, he settles for glaring at her rather than responding. Catching her foot with a bundle of quintessence mid-step, he sends her tumbling to the floor with a thump.

Upon hearing her cry of protest, he shifts to look at her over his shoulder. 

“Are you sure you’re not the child with your motor skills?” Turning back to face ahead he adds, “or lack thereof?” 

Ignoring her squawk of outrage, he instead joins Lotor where he had walked ahead and now was waiting for them at an elevator, illuminated in purple just as the rest of the ship. The Prince’s amusement joins his own, foreign emotions combining with familiar ones, all curling low in his gut. 

“You, my friend, are quite roguish,” he said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Keith states innocently, the following snort from the Prince showing that he knew exactly what Keith did.

The short ride to the upper floors was spent in silence, Keith catching the tail-end of a glare that Ezor sends him from where she stands on the other side of Lotor. Smoke-grey doors open to reveal one of the ship’s many hangars, two women standing before a massive, sleek ship.

“Keith, these are my Generals, but more than that, my friends,” Lotor introduces them in turn:

Axca is the one with light blue skin and navy blue short-cropped hair, her bangs left longer to perfectly frame her sharp chin. Keith feels Axca’s cautiousness rather than sees it, catching a few disjointed thoughts: _Like Narti… Can’t Trust. Druid._

The tall and broad woman is Zethrid. Her large ears stood on the top of her head fanning out to the side, purple fur lining the outside while pink on the inside. Her skin was also blue, a few shades darker than Axca’s, and a dark jagged scar ran from below her right eye and down her cheek. 

“Obviously,” Lotor continues, “you’ve already met Ezor, and now we’re just waiting on Narti.”

Before he could dive in to try to make sense of the various fragments of thought from the two half-breeds, the final General – Narti - arrives. 

She doesn’t have eyes, only scaled blue skin where they should be. A purple stripe runs from her forehead down the slope of her nose, stopping just above her nostrils. The skin below her mouth is a significantly lighter blue than the rest of her face, make even more so by the hood that casts the top of her face into shadow.

She looks menacing.

Strangely enough, those aren’t the most peculiar of her features. The final General’s mouth is similar enough to a lizards’ but upon further contemplation, could be closer compared to a dinosaurs’. Narti has a large muscled tail, curling up from the ground and around the cat by her feet.

But none of these things fully registered against the utter shock and unrestrained joy he fells at hearing her voice in his head.

_Hello, Keith._ The sentence was simple, boring even, but it was enough to warrant a startled laugh from him. Keith doesn’t remember the last time he laughed, genuinely laughed, not the harsh sarcastic bark that left him when he wanted to give the Druids an extra hard time. 

It felt good. Hell, amazing even. 

Because for the first time he was face to face with someone who had experienced what he had. Someone who had been stripped apart and put back together into something unrecognizable. Who had a similar ability and wasn’t a complete and utter _monster._

_Someone like me._ His mind supplies. Feeling the fleeting feeling of amusement tickle the edge of his mind he realizes- with no small amount of embarrassment- that he had projected his thoughts to her.

_Indeed._ Narti’s phantom voice rings like a bell inside his head, _Though, I’m pretty sure you can do things that even I can’t._

_Like what?_ He silently questioned, pushing his confusion towards her in emphasis. 

_You feel significantly more powerful,_ she clarifies. _You can read minds, correct?_

Noticing the others staring, Keith only nods before starting to walk to where they were boarding the sleek battlecruiser docked against the prison ship. _Yes._

Narti caught up with him easily, black cat now perched on her shoulder, staring intently at him. _I can as well, but I need to have skin contact to access anything other than emotions._

Keith sends a silent hum towards her, only half listening to Lotor explain living situations. _I take it the cat is something special as well?_

A laugh broke against the surface of his mind. _Yes, Kova is certainly something special._ Sensing his confusion, she continues. _We have a mind link, allowing me to see the world through her eyes._

Keith sent her a feeling of awe, finding it easier to just project certain emotions than putting his feelings into words. Words get mixed up, jumbled with too many meanings and connotations. 

Telepathy enables him to communicate not with words, but ideas, making expressing his emotions and reactions easy. 

_Indeed, I don’t know what I would do without her._ He fells a feeling of melancholy mixed with gratefulness and undisputed love, the sentiment too complex, too _vulnerable_ to have been projected willingly and he pulls away from her mind.

Keith had never thought much of reading other’s thoughts, barely batting an eye to the obvious intrusion. But after feeling something like that, it just felt… wrong, like he was listening in on a personal conversation, something that the other wouldn’t want him hearing.

Something overwhelmingly private. 

“I will show you too your quarters,” Lotor says, tearing Keith from his thoughts. “Axca, Narti, clear all information on Keith from the Imperial databases. We don’t want anyone knowing he even exists. Zethrid, Ezor, gather information on our next target.” The other generals left for their tasks with varying levels of goodbyes- a grin from Ezor, a curt nod from Acxa, and a silent goodbye in his mind from Narti.

Struggling to match Lotor’s long strides, Keith follows the Prince, sending a quick glance at elegant features, pretty and poised. He had expected to be shown his room by an underling - some servant or even a robot sentry - since the prince was obviously busy and shouldn’t be concerning himself with such a task.

He was led to a uniform grey metal door before the Prince paused outside before opening it.

“This is to be your room during your time spent as one of my Generals,” Lotor begins, his movements fluid as he strides into the room. “It’s a bit on the simple side, but if you were to need anything, I will certainly be able to get you it.” He pauses, mirth dancing along his words, “as long as it isn’t _too_ eccentric.”

Keith shifts at the teasing cadence of the words, responding before he could stop himself, “Aw, so even the Prince of the Galran Empire can’t get me all the Star Wars movies along with a milkshake that doesn’t induce stomach pains and discomfort hours later? Such a shame.” 

Keith fake pouts, barely managing to cut his rambling short before he breaks into an irate rant about how his small intestine fails to produce fucking lactase. He doubts Lotor would understand it anyway, since there are likely no dairy products in the Galran Empire, and if there were, Galrans probably evolved enough to avoid the whole failure-to-produce-an-enzyme deal.

(If the latter was true, then Keith surely got the short straw regarding his Galra heritage).

The Prince likely wouldn’t care anyway, but he’s still rewarded with the look of utter bewilderment on the other’s face.

“I’m not quite sure I under-” Lotor begins with an air of hesitance before catching Keith’s barely concealed amusement, “-ah, I see, that was a joke.”

“You think?” he snorts, turning to survey the room.

It’s simple, containing one bed half tucked into the wall, surrounded by many shelves and storage containers. Keith could tell the room’s built more for efficiency than comfort, but his hosts managed to make it look somewhat more welcoming with a few haphazardly placed pillows.

Lotor clears his throat, “Well other than the whole lack of… milkshakes, your chambers are to your liking?”

“Yeah…” Keith feels the unmistakable sensation of heat spreading across his face, reaching to graze the tips of his ears in a ruddy hue.

He finds himself unable to look anywhere near the Prince, instead deciding to find the several shades of grey sheets very interesting. Lotor mercifully didn’t bring up the redness that was most definitely painted across his face, although the telepath could feel the curiosity rippling off him in waves.

“Anyway, this is probably the best room I’ve stayed in since… ever. Especially compared to where I was not even an hour- er varga ago so yeah, uh thank you.” He stammers, scratching the back of his neck, “it means a lot.” 

Steeling himself enough to glance at the Prince’s face briefly, Keith takes in the fleeting look of surprise written there, quickly overtaken by mirth. The feeling of lingering surprise mingled with amusement and something else he couldn’t quite place emitted from Lotor, the older Galra’s lips quirking up in an almost-smile. 

“It’s the least I could do, considering that you’ve granted me with the pleasure of your presence for the meanwhile,” Keith scowls at the teasing remark, and Lotor’s smirk softened into a small, but genuine, smile. “But all jokes aside, I truly hope you find a home here, among us.”

_Home._

Keith’s experiences of home are faded, evanesce memories, merely ideas of what home should be. Was it a house? A family? A friend? He had sought a home in his early years, traveling from foster home to foster home. Each time he was moved he was told it wasn’t his fault, but by the fourth home he realized that it was. Of course, it was. He was too closed off. Too mean. Too _unlovable_. And now he was being offered a home, by a total stranger no less?

Ridiculous.

Keith narrows his eyes. No matter how sincere the Prince’s statement felt, how he yearns to believe him, Keith is no fool. He wouldn’t fall for the childish dream of being accepted into a family. Keith knows his worth. Knows that he was only in the other’s good graces for as long as he useful to him. 

The half-Galran Prince would discard him as soon as he proved unnecessary.

“Dinner will be in two vargas,” Lotor adds casually as he pivots to step out of the room. Too casually. The cautiousness had returned, spreading from the other man’s mind like mist, “You are free to use all the amenities the room has to offer, and there are clean clothes on one of the shelves. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks,” is his belated reply, but the door had already hissed shut. 

\- 

The new shirt is far too large, practically hanging off one shoulder and would’ve reached his thighs if he hadn’t bunched up the extra fabric and tied it in a loose knot. At least the pants fit alright, if a little long, but he made do with rolling them up. 

He relishes the feeling of being rid of the dirt and sweat that he had once thought was permanently engrained into his skin, the clean clothes soft as silk compared to the prison garb he had worn. The boots fit perfectly, covering where he had bunched up the fabric of his pants. 

Keith makes his way to what he thinks is the dining hall, but he has no way of truly knowing since he was simply following the auras of the other generals. They were all together- bar Lotor- a mass of different glowing colors, so it was safe to assume that they had already positioned themselves in the dining hall. 

The brightness of the glowing mass increases as he strolls closer, just on the other side of a large metal door now. With only a moment’s pause, he walks forward and into the unfamiliar room.  
Conversation cuts off abruptly, the four women turned to face him with varying levels of congeniality: Narti being the most welcoming with Ezor quickly following. 

Both Ezor and the large one- _Zethrid_ he quickly recalls- had changed into something more comfortable, while Narti and Axca remained in their armor. 

“Hey Keith!” Ezor exclaimed, mouth breaking into a wide grin. “We were just about to send Narti to go get you, but I guess we won’t have too now.”

_I’ll make a wild guess and assume that you followed our auras,_ Narti speaks to him telepathically.

_Yes,_ he replies while sending the other generals a small smile. “Yeah I managed.”

“And how-” Axca fixes him with a sharp glare “-did you manage to find us?” It was obvious that she knew, or at least could guess the answer to her own question, with how she kept glancing between him and Narti.

She is easily the most suspicious of him, but whether that suspicion is born from a natural cautiousness that’s simply a part of her character, or if she is more guarded around him as a result of his abilities, remains unbeknownst to him.

“I sensed your collective presence and followed.” Keith states bluntly, making his way towards where Ezor is patting the seat between her and Narti. 

Axca opens her mouth to reply but gets interrupted by the hiss of the doors opening. Lotor saunters into the room, gaze immediately snapping to meet Keith’s. 

The Prince too, had bathed, that much was obvious with this still-wet hair shimmering in the bright lights (a strange contrast to the normal dim lighting of the other Imperial battle cruisers). 

Keith had always thought of the Prince as the type of person who would wear a button down shirt and dress pants - or the space equivalent of thereof seeing that Lotor has no way of going to Earth, since he didn’t even know where it is (or maybe he does), and for something as fatuous as buying clothes - as casual clothes, so it was certainly… different to see him in something similar to sweatpants and a simple shirt.

Even more alarming was the way his hair was messily wrangled into a bun on top of his head, several silvery strands falling to frame Lotor’s chin and jaw. For whatever reason, Keith found the way the Prince’s hair was swept from his neck… oddly distracting.

It was then that Keith realized he was staring and hurriedly gave him a brusque nod in greeting before dropping into the seat, choosing to ignore the amused feeling emitting from Narti.

“Ok so the food here is absolutely terrible so I suggest eating it as fast as possible to get it over with.” Ezor informed him with an excitement that contradicted her statement, proceeding to jump into a detailed list of all the things served within the past month- _pheob_ he corrects himself.

Even now, it was difficult to remind himself to use the Imperial measurements for time, he often found himself subconsciously switching to Earth measurements. It had taken some time, but eventually he figured out the Galra’s terms for measurements of time, and roughly how they equate to Earth’s. 

Days are longer, either because Galrans need less sleep, or the planet they are modeling the time measurements off simply turns slower.

Keith still doesn’t see the point of adhering to the day cycles of a long dead planet, but then again, it wasn’t _his_ planet that had gotten destroyed.

Broken from his thoughts with the arrival of the food, Keith studies his new companions’ actions. It wasn’t that probably couldn’t figure out what to do with the strange utensils before him, they seemed pretty straight forward, he just preferred to decrease the chances of him making a fool out of himself with the possible chances of learning through trial and error.

On the right side of his white circular disk- that he assumed was a plate- is what looks like a spoon, so deep that it looked more like a small bowl on the end of a silver stick. The left side was an extended, sharp pole, made of the same silver metal as the bowl-spoon. 

Axca gets served first, a not-so-subtle grimace twisting across her pale features as a pile of steaming goop is dropped carelessly onto her plate. She immediately stabbed one of the- still moving, he realizes with no small amount of disgust- lime green tentacles, bringing it up to her mouth with a look of utter disdain on her face.

Seated next to her, Zethrid dug into the squirming mass with nothing other than her hands, shoveling piles of food into her mouth with astounding speed, barely taking any time to breath.

“Ughhh,” Ezor wined when she was served, drawing out the word to an exaggerated length. “Macapuno larva? Again!?” She then proceeded to lift the plate to eye level, glaring at the food as if it had personally offended her. 

Keith was served shortly afterwards, gulping down his hesitation as he begrudgingly skewered one of the chewy pieces of meat and brought it to his mouth. It was slimy, and the snot-like sauce that covered it coated his mouth as the larva squirmed. Not bothering to chew, Keith shallows it whole, and even as it passed down his throat with ease, he couldn’t help the distinct fear that it would come crawling back up. 

Still, it was the first time in many decapheobs, since he had tasted something. During his imprisonment, the druids and other guards simply injected the nutrients directly into his body, not bothering to feed him actual food. Being able to taste something other than the dried blood in his mouth, no matter how disgusting, is a welcome gift.

He could feel Narti’s amusement cutting through the others’ aversion, drawing his attention to the half-Galra beside him.

_You don’t seem nearly as revolted as the rest of us._ Indeed, he felt no sensation of disgust, no sensation of any taste for that matter. 

_My people rely heavily of telepathy in terms of communication, it was one of the reasons why the druids took such an interest in me._ Her soft voice fills his mind, effectively distracting him from the questionably edible substance he was shoveling into his mouth. _We are often born without tongues, for we have no need for them. No tongue, no taste buds._

Keith ponders this for a moment before replying, _Well, you’re not missing out on much._

A light laugh brushed against his mind, _From the others’ reactions, I gathered this quite a long time ago._

Indeed, the other generals all held varying levels of distain on their faces, with Axca trying to hold her expressions back and Ezor complaining out loud. Only Lotor seemed unbothered by the food, his visage perfectly blank. Keith would have believed the emotionless expression if not for the raging contempt radiating from his position at the head of the table.

The rest of dinner was rather uneventful, small conversation being traded from General to General, or General to Prince. Keith mostly talked to Narti, albeit silently, sharing stories about his short life on Earth in exchange for tales of the adventures of the generals and Lotor. 

In the middle of one particularly wild story- in which the generals had to rescue Lotor from a group of anti-Galra rebels that had kidnapped him, only to find that he had escaped on his own, and was drunkenly urinating off a statue of that planet’s most widely worshipped god - Keith breathes out an amused chuckle, Narti’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter beside him. 

The following silence is abrupt, the two telepaths looking up to see the remaining Generals and Prince staring at them, bemused.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share what you both find so amusing?” Axca drones, confusion and contempt evident.

Keith ignores her scathing glare in favor of meeting Lotor’s amused stare, lips curling into what he knew was a shit-eating grin. “You know, you never seemed to be the kind of person to defile a religious symbol, drunk or not.”

It only takes a moment for the words to set in, letting Keith witness the exact moment they register. The Prince blanches, looking almost abashed, before leveling Narti with a scandalized glare.

At the same moment, Zethrid spews her drink all over Axca, breaking into a fit of cackling laughter, only stopping abruptly when the smaller Galra seethes, standing up with enough force to send her chair screeching backwards. 

As soon as she left the room with “I’m going to clean up” as her parting words, bright pink liquid still dripping from her hair, Zethrid’s laughter started anew, this time joined by Ezor’s. 

There’s a warm feeling in his chest, a sense of familiarity that he had thought was long gone.

He supposes he could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahah wow Zethrid does absolutely nothing


	4. Two insomniacs have a little heart to heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loyal to only Empress Marmora, it had once been considered the highest honor to be a Blade, before The Empress’ great reign had ended and the group scattered to the fringes of the universe. Thousands of decapheobs have passed since, and the Blade of Marmora was nothing more than a myth.
> 
> Or… perhaps not.
> 
> Because, in the loose grip of his hand lies a dagger belonging to a group that apparently is not as extinct as the vast majority of the universe is led to believe.

The observation deck is barren when the Prince arrives, alone with the huge windows displaying the nebula the ship passes through. Despite Lotor’s earlier attempts, sleep had eluded him, his mind far too active to permit himself the sweet relief, regardless of how much he wanted it. 

There is always a substantial amount of work to be done, and that isn’t taking to account the efforts he has to make to put his plans in motion. 

Apparently, exile doesn’t necessary grant him freedom from the Empire’s chains. Instead renouncing him to a life in the far corners of the universe, still fighting in the name of his father and the Empire.

Though, he supposes there is a certain amount of freedom gained from not having to report back to Central Command every couple pheobs, and a reduced chance of being caught by his father’s spies in the insolated margins of the Empire. 

Lotor doesn’t even know whether those are his father’s spies or not, since Zarkon hadn’t deigned to take interest in him for the past thousand decapheobs. A more likely, yet more unsettling, alternative is that they were actually Haggar’s spies, ordered to observe his movements and motives by the Witch herself.

He doesn’t know what had induced Haggar to spy on him, whether something he had done made her suspicious or it was simply a way to keep an eye on Zarkon’s only son and heir – not that he’d ever be needed, since his father would likely outlast them all – but of course, the reason didn’t truly matter.

It’s never good to hold the Witch’s interest.

Lotor shifts his weight onto his left leg. The dull thrum of the ship beneath him fills his pointed ears, the only sound in the blissful silence. 

His thoughts return to the knife that his Generals had found on board the prison ship. Supposedly belonging to Keith, it had been confiscated as soon as the half Galra had been discarded to reside on the prison ship. It wasn’t surprising for a prisoner’s belongings to be taken away, if anything, it was more confounding if they were allowed to keep them. No, what had left the Prince appalled was the emblem engraved in the hilt of the blade. 

The glowing symbol is nothing other than a perfect copy of the symbol of Empress Marmora’s blood sworn, a group of exclusive Galra that had called themselves the Blade of Marmora.

Loyal to only Empress Marmora, it had once been considered the highest honor to be a Blade, before The Empress’ great reign had ended and the group scattered to the fringes of the universe. Thousands of decapheobs have passed since, and the Blade of Marmora is nothing more than a myth.

Or… perhaps not.

Because, in the loose grip of his hand lies a dagger belonging to a group that apparently is not as extinct as the vast majority of the universe is led to believe.

Keith, it seems, has a lot of secrets.

The rustling of cloth behind his draws him from his thoughts. Lotor lifts his head, slipping the knife back into the folds of his sleeve he turns to face his unexpected visitor, finding no other than Keith standing in the doorway of the observation deck.

_Speak of the devil and he shall appear_ , he muses, _or think, in this case_. He gestures for Keith to join him with a flick of his head. Turning his attention back to the empty space ahead of him, Lotor watches through the reflection as Keith approaches, the silence of which he does revealing that his earlier noise was probably purposeful, a way to announce his presence.

They stand there, peering at the vast swath of space ahead of them, or at least Keith was. Lotor had taken to observing the young man through the reflection in the window, from the unabashed amazement written across his elegant features, to the flare of power hidden behind his eyes.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, breaking the silence.

Although Keith speaks without bothering to face him, it isn’t rude. If anything, the young man is simply too enamored by the view in front of him to break his gaze.

“Yeah, after spending so long in a prison, even the floor is too comfortable compared to what I’m used to.” Lotor could understand that, after spending nights in some… less than adequate situations, he knows all too well the feeling of feeling so unused to an actual bed that it feels… less uncomfortable than unfamiliar. 

Lotor hums in understanding, thoughts drifting back to Keith’s reaction with the generals. He seemed to get along with them overall, the only incident being when he flipped Ezor over his shoulder after she had tried to sneak up on them, but that was understandable. What had really stuck out was when he had met Narti, laughter spilling from the young Galra’s throat, seemingly unsolicited if for how quickly he had cut off the noise was anything to go by.

Lotor wonders what it would take for Keith to laugh like that again.

Even Narti had seemed happy with the new arrangement, sending him a feeling of contentment after he silently questioned her with a look on his face.

“I trust you and Narti are getting along?”

“Yes,” came the reply, almost reluctant in its delivery, “she’s really nice.”

“Is she now?” he asks, and just for the sake of it adds, “Because you hadn’t talked to her at all.”

Keith snorts, finally turning from the swirling nebulas to level Lotor with an exasperated stare, “Please, you know that we’ve been communicating.”

“Oh really?” Lotor says with faux contemplation, “And how, pray tell, would you two communicate without speaking.” He's laying it on extra thick, annoyingly so, but it was worth it to see the exasperation on his companion’s face nearly double.

Said companion sighs, sending him a scathing scowl, “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?” he replies, an overly innocuous tone masking his - albeit small - genuine interest.

“A little shit.” 

A bark of laughter leaves his throat before he could smother it, the wholly flat tone the phrase was said in only adding to his amusement. “I can’t say that I’ve ever received such a blunt insult.”

Keith remains silent, a reaction Lotor has grown to expect from the former prisoner. He doesn’t say anything when it isn’t necessary, making the moments when he does talk all that more rare. It’s refreshing, especially after being surrounded by bustling politicians and Commanders whose main method of climbing ranks is to suck up to those of higher command. 

His new General turns to face the stars once more, posture rigid once more. Keith’s movements scream discomfort as he shifts his weight, the action almost mechanical. The discomfort is second only to the curiosity written in Keith’s stature, the way that he leans over-so-slightly in Lotor’s direction.

Something had caught Keith’s interest, that much is obvious. Though, whether it’s a question that’s been haunting him ever since his rescue or if it’s something that he’s learned from reading either his or the others’ minds, remains unbeknownst to Lotor. 

The part that truly bothers him though, is that Keith apparently doesn’t know how to ask his question, resulting in the younger Galra merely shifting in agitation. 

There are numerous things that could be the cause of Keith’s curiosity, but Lotor couldn’t help but think that the half-Galra had sensed the new topic that he wants to bring up.

Turns out, he did.

“You have something you want to give me.” It wasn’t even stated as a question. The words are pure fact, like Keith is giving no room for argument. “Or at least show me,” he adds, as if in afterthought. 

He had planned to ease into this conversation, but he supposes this could be an opportunity he’d be a fool to dismiss.

“Do I now,” Lotor ponders aloud, “how about you tell me since you already know.” It was an effort to keep the bite from his voice.

He should expect it, be used to it. After all, Lotor doubts that he’d restrain from reading another’s mind if he ever developed telepathic abilities. Narti reads his thoughts all the time, and although he doesn’t enjoy the idea of someone inside his head, he trusts her enough not to delve into the depths of his mind.

Lotor knows that his adverse reaction to Keith reading his mind is straight up hypocrisy.

Frankly, he doesn’t care. 

Keith’s eyes dance back to the stars with a wince. “I… uh, sorry.” He stammers, expression contorting with guilt. “If it makes it any better, I don’t know what it is. Only that you have something you want to bring up and don’t know how.”

He scoffs, turning away from the younger man in favor of facing the giant window, “It isn’t as much as knowing how rather than knowing the best way to do it.” He doesn’t know why it seems so important to explain this, why there is a frantic, bubbling sensation in his gut screaming at him to make Keith _understand._

Lotor faces Keith once more, finding him still staring at the expanse of space before them, sharp features illuminated by starlight. He sighs, “Axca was searching where they kept each prisoner’s belongings and found this.” Pulling out the knife he watches Keith’s expression intently, allowing him to witness the moment shock blooms across graceful features, smooth lips parting in the spitting image of incredulity.

“I… I thought it was gone,” Keith swallows, throat bobbing with the motion, “they took it away as soon as I was captured.” His expression was something along the lines of wistful, eyes locked onto the knife with a blend of nostalgia and melancholy in them. 

Turning the blade over in his hand, he runs his thumb over the symbol one last time before passing it to Keith, not missing the way the young Galra traces the emblem as if in a trance.

Lotor wonders if Keith knew the history behind that blade, what the Luxite metal it was made of meant. There was no way that Keith was a Blade of Marmora, he was far too young to be a member when captured, and there was certainly no way he could join in the middle of his captivity. But then, how’d he get the knife if he wasn’t a Blade?

“Do you know what it is?” he asks, curiosity winning the battle over caution. 

“Um, a knife?” Keith replies, eyes still on the dagger. 

Lotor chuckles, “True. But that’s not all it is.”

“Are you always this cryptic?” came the exasperated reply, Keith finally deciding to make eye contact.

Lotor studies those stunning eyes, how they reflect the swirling galaxies in a way that makes Keith seem born of starlight: Void-colored hair, eyes made of constellations, and pale skin basking in the soft glow of the ship. Keith is an enigma, secretive to the point that he appears cold and callous. And yet… yet he currently wears his heart on his sleeve, emotions painted on a fine-boned canvas for Lotor to study.

There’s unrelenting honesty written in Keith’s face. Candid to a fault, the half-Galra is surprisingly open, regardless of how prickly his exterior may appear. It’s in his expression that Lotor knows that he isn’t lying, earnest confusion enough of evidence.

He doesn’t know what prompts it, whether it’s the fierce conviction that had taken over Keith’s features, or it’s the intrigue that had settled under his skin, festering and writhing until the concept of learning more of Keith’s abilities became the only coherent thought in his head.

Lotor supposes he could also blame it on how positively _tired_ he is, reflecting briefly on the events that had lead him to stargazing with too much on his mind.

“Would you like to find out?”

“What?” Keith’s head tilts to the side and eyebrows pitching together to form an expression that shouldn’t be nearly as adorable as it is, and yet it just so _Keith_.

“Would you like to find out what else there is to your knife?” he clarifies, face falling into a familiar amused mask.

“You want me to read your mind.” It isn’t a question.

“Precisely.”

True, it’s risky, Keith could easily access other memories and information that Lotor wants no one to know, to the point that he’d rather die before anyone ever had the chance to find them out. Or perhaps he’d even control Lotor’s mind. It’s definitely a possibility, if his experiences with Narti were any insight to Keith’s own abilities.

It’s risky, but it would also give him a chance to compare said abilities to Narti’s, see just how dangerous Haggar’s experiment truly was.

Not to mention quench – even if only partially – his burning curiosity.

Keith’s eyes dance across his face for a moment before the shorter man shrugs, crossing his arms and leaning on his right leg, fixing Lotor with a dull stare. Mere ticks passed before he speaks again. 

“You think my knife could get you and the other generals an alliance with the Blade of Marmora.”

Oh.

Interesting. Keith had found his end goal in an instant, the confidence and speed in which the phrase was spoken revealing that it had taken no effort. Unlike Narti, who relied on touch to read other’s minds, Keith could make the connection without having to be in close proximity with his victim. 

And, apparently, he wasn’t done yet.

“Oh, so that’s what the symbol is,” Keith looks him with unabashed wonder, “an adornment only fully-fledged members are gifted. I had always wondered what it was.”

“Marvelous.” 

Words seem to evade him. It seemed impossible; with Narti he always felt the invasive feeling when she read his mind, no matter how insignificant it seems at the time. But Keith slipped into his mind undetected, leaving him astounded. 

The former prisoner snorts, mirth dancing in his eyes. “You seem a lot more amiable than when you found out earlier.”

The prince sighs, running a hand through his hair, “I prefer to be made aware when my inner thoughts are being riffled through.”

“Dully noted,” was Keith’s monotonous reply, “anyway, care to explain why this Blade of Marmora is so important?”

Lotor blinks, searching for the lie once more. There is no way he didn’t know, but the pure earnestness on Keith’s face says otherwise.

“How do you not know?” he asks, bewildered, “you looked into my head?”

Keith hums in confirmation, turning his attention back to the blade in his hand, “I did. But I would’ve had to look through some memories and do some excessive _riffling_ as you call it.”

The dagger flips around Keith’s fingers in a practiced motion, the twirling movement rhythmic and enrapturing. Every so often, it catches the light, making the weapon gleam in the purple glow.

“Not worth the effort?” he ridicules; tone just short of mocking.

“No,” Keith answers honestly, “just too private.”

“Private?” was he serious? Here is a man with the capability to gain all the answers he seeks without lifting a hand, yet he was worried about something as trivial as _privacy._ “You can’t be serious.”

A startled laugh comes from his newly-appointed general, “What? Do you want me to learn all your secrets?” 

Lotor scoffed, “No, I’m simply surprised why you’re not using your resources to gain the knowledge you seek. It seems like a waste to me.” Keith’s eyes narrow to near slits, scowl deepening. The flipping of the blade stops abruptly, dark metal sliding to an easy stop in Keith’s palm.

“I didn’t ask for this,” his words are finite, tone icy.

“I understand that.” He truly does, although for him it was a slightly different situation, a father replaced, a mother gone. “None of us did. But if I was the one in your situation, I would do everything in my power to see if my new-found companions are trustworthy.”

“I already did.”

Lotor blinks. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend exactly Keith found in his head that deemed his trustworthy. The Prince knew he was many things, the terms others have called him more or less matching his own descriptions of himself: eloquent, silver-tongued, ruthless, (a “vain bastard” according to Ezor, the others agreeing with various levels of reluctance).

But he’d never considered himself trustworthy. Virtually the opposite. Lotor has a notorious history of backstabbing and betrayal, and although some stories are greatly exaggerated, he certainly does whatever must be done in order to survive. If that includes framing or backstabbing some of his ‘allies’, then so be it.

And yet… yet Keith looked into his head, searched his entire soul and left his entire existence laid bare and still found something trustworthy. No matter if it was a temporary trust, one built on taking advantage of temporary safety, being trusted is… unexpected.

Though, he can’t quite say he was against the idea.

\- 

Lotor looks… softer somehow, the Prince’s visage painted by the soft glow of the galaxies just beyond the window. Only a few other lights in the room were on, leaving the view of the stars mainly undisputed. The purple and blue glow is reflected on the Prince’s snowy hair, left down to flow freely down it’s owner’s back. Maybe it’s the low light, the slightly intimate moment shared between them (not too intimate, but vulnerable for too people who had just met), but whatever the cause, the result is stunning:

Lotor is a fallen star, front illuminated by the phantom light of constellations and back by the silken glow of the ship. A single lock of hair flows down his face, catching the glow and sparkling as if dipped in liquid starlight. Lotor is the face of all of Keith’s repressed temptations, desires that he’s never been able to act on, simply because it’s _never the time._

_It’s not fair,_ Keith thinks. It’s not fair for him to be forced to stand by as all his past fantasies and hidden delusions are stolen and sculpted, residing in one ethereal being.

No, it’s not fair, not as Keith has to stand next to Lotor while he’s _like this,_ and be doomed to be imprisoned in a cage of his own making. Trapped behind bars made of repressed emotions and restrained desires, simply because _there’s no time,_ especially not during a war.

The concept of fairness is trivial, especially during times like these, so Keith let’s himself trace Lotor’s features with his eyes, rather than indulge in something he could never have.

Like this, bathing in the glow of the night sky, Lotor is softened, swathed by the light of a galaxy that transforms streams of star-spun hair into wisps of moonlight that falls onto broad shoulders, cascading down his back. Yellow sclerae less contradicting of his skin tone and more… adorning, highlighting the lilac hue. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Keith’s starts at the parroted words, his words, spoken barely a few vargas earlier and yet an eternity ago. A familiar heat spreads across his cheeks, and he can only hope that the dim lighting hid the blush of embarrassment- it couldn’t be anything else- that paints his face and the tips of his ears.

Judging by the amused smirk on Lotor’s face, it doesn’t.

“Can’t someone as eloquent as you come up with their own words?” Keith grumbles.

“There’s no need,” Lotor replies, flipping a stand of hair that’s falling into his face away, only for it to fall against his lips once more, “not with a reaction like that.”

“Conceited prick,” he mutters, ripping his eyes from the Prince in favor of glaring at the stars. Keith can almost hear them laughing at him. Lotor’s following laugh is louder than the stars’ and admittedly better, high and clear and so warm that it sends a shiver down his spine.

They stand in comfortable silence after that, the atmosphere settling lightly onto his shoulders. His thoughts took a turn, leaving behind the mental traces of moon lit hair and lilac lips, towards something that had been hounding him since the morning.

Keith thought of Axca’s caution, the narrowed eyes and suspicion that he didn’t doubt that he’d be targeted to even if he wasn’t a telepath, but the knowledge of his abilities only strengthened her sentiments. He thought of Lotor’s barely contained ire at finding out that Keith had read his mind, the frenzied, almost panicked attempt to hide his internal thoughts and memories when he allowed Keith to read his mind to learn about the Blade of Marmora. Keith doubts the Prince was aware of his own attempt to shove his deeper sentiments down, to keep his personal thoughts and feelings to himself. It was only a natural response, some people may be more open than others, but thoughts are always guarded, even if done subconsciously.

“I won’t read your mind-” Keith starts, he’d owes that much to them, to let their thoughts and memories remain secret unless they wanted to share them. “-or any of the others’, not anymore.”

Lotor sent him a curious glance but didn’t say anything so Keith continued.

“I promise...” he tried, but it doesn’t sound anywhere sincere enough. Keith needs for Lotor to know that he _means_ it, that he understood where they were coming from, the need to remain private.

He experienced the same feeling before. 

“I swear,” that sounds better, though not as drastic as he wants, “I swear on my honor, on my life, that I will never read your mind, or any of the others’, unless someone’s life depends on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: Lotor is pretty and Keith is almost _too_ aware.


	5. Keith can commit mass murder (then again so can i but he won't get finger prints on the weapons)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re dangerous- these fantasies. Born from the misguided belief that trust may be possible and fueled by desire, festering like an old wound until the only thing he can focus on is that dull ache, helpless to stop its growth until it encompasses him like the flame of a dying star.
> 
> He could stop this, he _should_ stop this- this slow descent into madness, a pleasure that turns just as painful the very moment he’s betrayed.
> 
> And yet, he doesn’t want too.

Lotor’s greeted by a rush of cold air as the metal doors of the training room slide open. He scans the room with disinterest, eyes landing on where Axca is already engaged in battle with one of the training droids. 

It’s more a dance than a fight. Axca moves to the sounds of her own breaths, to a beat of gunshots and the clang as they meet their intended target. Each movement is as graceful as the last, precise and deadly as she ducks and dodges the droid’s shots. 

Axca’s one of the finest sharpshooters in the Empire, adaptable and deadly in all situations. Training is no exception. Whipping around with impressive speed, she avoids the blast with ease, launching herself towards the robot and placing her blaster against its head. The droid falls to the ground with a dull thump, a smoking hole where she had shot it. 

Axca stands before the fallen robot for a moment before replacing her gun in its holster and bending down to haul it towards the repair station. Unfortunately, the automated system that originally brought the broken training bots to their designated resting place broke pheobs ago, resulting in Lotor and his generals having to drag the droids there themselves.

Axca drops the robot with a grunt, fixing it to one of the many metal slabs where the sentries work on repairing the damage.

“Impressive as always,” he speaks, watching as she whirls to face him. Lotor takes note of how her fingers twitch, reaching towards her blaster by reflex, but refraining to grab it through sheer willpower. Gradually, tense muscles relax as Axca realizes who her surprise visitor is, though her expression remains guarded. 

“Thanks,” Axca replies, blue eyes flicking up to his face before turning to tuck her gun into its holster. She opens her mouth then closes it, as if to say something but then thinking better.

Lotor sighs, “You may speak your mind around me, it’s your right as one of my generals.” It may not be the most orthodox system of command, especially within the Empire, but their self-found system of equality seems to work just fine. It’s through it, that they had eventually become more than tentative allies, becoming family in all aspects but blood. Giving her what he hopes is a reassuring smile, he adds, “What do you wish to say?”

After another pause, she states: “Keith will be joining us today.” It isn’t a question.

“Why yes,” he hums, “he is one of my generals, and thus part of the team now. It is only necessary that he train with us.”

His knowledge about the former prisoner’s abilities and fighting experience is far too lacking, the only thing he has to go by are the lean muscles wrapping around Keith’s lithe frame. Miraculously, they hadn’t wasted away during the telepath’s time in captivity. Lotor doesn’t know if that was a result of the druid’s experimentation or if retaining muscle structure for long periods of time is a natural trait for Keith’s non-Galra race. Regardless of the cause, Keith retaining muscle mass is a marvel, now all Lotor has to do is figure out if he can use them.

Keith’s transition from prisoner to general would be made significantly easier if Keith could get into fighting shape quickly. Training with Keith would give him insight on what exactly they needed to do to achieve that. 

It would also give him insight on Keith’s other abilities, particularly the one’s gained through the Druid’s experimenting.

“You trust him,” Axca states. 

Lotor runs a hand through his hair, fixing Axca with a hard stare, “No, I don’t.” He doesn’t trust anyone, not with everything. He trusts his Generals- some more than others- enough not to stab him in the back in the midst of battle, but not unconditionally. Not with his plans. “At least not yet.” 

She frowns, fine brows furrowing, “He’s dangerous.”

“I know.”

“He could read our minds, we’d be defenseless,” she continues, as if he wasn’t already aware.

Keith’s promise had been… unexpected. The half-Galra has few enough advantages in their current arrangement, and to eliminate one of his most valuable assets for something as inconsequential as privacy and trust… Lotor can’t decide whether the young man is incredibly valiant or overwhelmingly naïve. 

Though, Keith may very well be both. Brave for giving up what may be his most useful ability to earn the trust of Lotor and his generals, and stupid for believing that it may actually work.

The thought is a touching one: a telepath refusing to read another’s mind to respect their privacy, but ultimately, it is unrealistic. While Lotor won’t deny that it made him slightly less bitter about being virtually defenseless to Keith’s gift, he can’t say that it makes him trust his newest General anymore. Although Keith made an oath (a particularly dramatic one at that), Lotor has no way to know whether he’d follow through or not, for all he knows, it can all be some elaborate ruse to get him to let his guard down.

(No matter how genuine Keith had seemed).

Returning from his internal musings with a sign, Lotor levels his general with a glare that’s nothing short of trenchant, “So can Narti.” And that was the end of that.

Axca spares him one last narrowed-eye glance before turning to face the doors when they slide open, revealing Narti and Keith. No matter how much he tried to suppress it, Lotor couldn’t help the amused twitch of his lips when he observes the height difference between the two telepaths. Perhaps Keith’s short stature is another quirk of his non-Galra species.

“Keith, Narti,” he greets, nodding his head towards them in turn, “how pleasant for you to join us.”

“And Ezor,” Keith states blandly, gesturing behind him.

“Oh, come on!” Ezor cries as she slowly morphs into view, the air just behind Keith’s left shoulder flickering, “I thought I had you!”

_You were behind two telepaths,_ is Narti’s monotonous reply, faded as it reaches everyone in the room. _Good luck with that._

“Ok fine, but I would’ve gotten the one’s without freaky mind abilities!” Ezor complains, despite of how her mouth curves into a sharp yet joyful grin. “Zethrid should get here soon.”

No sooner did the words leave Ezor’s mouth that her girlfriend comes barreling through the door, a bellowed shout of “Surprise attack!” her only warning before launching herself at Axca.

Axca narrowly dodges the careening general, leaping to the side and out of the way. Zethrid, apparently not prepared for what would happen if her intended target managed to evade her, continues on her trajectory, crashing into one of the sleek metal walls. 

A low groan escapes Zethrid from where she’s crumpled on the floor, rubbing her head with one clawed hand. Lotor releases a heated breath, pinched the bridge of his nose as he turns to face Keith.

“I would like to study your abilities to determine what exactly we are working with,” he states, giving the shorter man an accessing stare. While the tight black shirt and pants does nothing to hide the muscles coiled around Keith’s narrow frame, the signs of physical power are nothing compared to the predatory air of what lie within. Unlike earlier, when his eyes resembled molten metal, Keith’s eyes are now purple flames, flickering with barely restrained power. 

“Uh, okay?” 

Lotor sighs (it feels like he’s been doing a lot of that lately), running a hand through his hair, “What I mean to ask is would you like to spar?”

Keith blinks, “Oh… yeah sure.”

A brief bark of laughter sounds out behind him, Lotor immediately knowing it’s Zethrid without even having to turn. Without bothering to break his gaze from Keith’s, he says, “How about the rest of you partner off and begin sparing, or would you prefer to sit around like a bunch of lazy Snorlogs?”

The rest of his general’s chatter fades to the background as Lotor fixes his full attention on Keith, who doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself as he fidgets and glances back at Narti’s retreating back. 

“We’re going to start with some hand-to-hand combat,” Lotor drawls, positioning himself into a fighting stance. “Wouldn’t want to make it too difficult for you.”

Delight churns in his gut as Keith’s eyes narrow with challenge, hands reaching up to tie his hair into a low pony tail and feet moving to mirror the Prince’s fighting stance. A moment passes, in which Lotor raises a finely plucked brow, fixing Keith with an unimpressed look. That, it seems, was all it took to have Keith lunging forward, a fist flying towards the Prince’s face. 

And for Sa’s sake, he is _fast._

Lotor barely parries Keith’s fist, feet steady as he quarter turns around the general to return the blow with a swipe of his claws. Keith has to nearly bend himself in half to avoid Lotor’s nails, arching his back into what should have been a painfully awkward maneuver, but was somehow made graceful by an elegant return to a standing position. 

Keith’s fighting style is… different, to say the least. While most Galra fight with their claws, mimicking how they would swipe at an opponent with a weapon, Keith’s attacks are all blunt blows and curled fists.

Punching is unsuitable for most Galra since the individual would most likely do more damage to themselves than their opponent with cuts that may go through their entire palm. Evidently, Keith either doesn’t have claws, or they are far too dull or short to do any real damage to himself. A third, and positively ludicrous option is that Keith does have claws and chooses to punch regardless either due to a remarkable pain tolerance or a desire to make everything markedly more difficult for himself. 

Regardless of the reason, punching is well suited for Keith, his stance and movements made to utilize his reach as much as possible. After receiving an opening, Lotor moves on the offensive, making Keith hollow out his stomach to avoid the sweeping arc of the Prince’s claws. Neither of them had gotten a solid on the other yet, the only contact being blocks and mere grazes.

Keith dodges with unfazed ease, moving to avoid Lotor’s blows just as they are thrown, like he already knows when and where the older Galra is planning to attack. 

Lotor knows that his movements and style certainly aren’t predicable, especially compared to his Imperial company. He strikes with precise blows, fast and unrelenting, yet Keith manages to evade each one. The younger Galra is just as unpredictable, but while Lotor’s movements are built from decapheobs upon decapheobs of training and experience, Keith’s are forged from the fires of his instincts. 

But no matter how good someone’s instincts are, they don’t allow you to predict your opponent’s movements.

That said, just as Lotor leans on his lead leg to deliver a kick to his opponent’s side, Keith drops to the ground and kicks his leg out, sweeping Lotor off his feet and to the ground with a thud.

A low groan escapes his lips as he hits the floor, barely able to lift his arms before Keith is upon him, trying to pin him down. They struggle together on the ground for a bit, each landing on top the other before Lotor’s Altean strength ultimately allows him to subdue his opponent. 

“Yield,” he growls breathless. Keith was panting beneath him, glaring up at him for a moment only to continue struggling to free himself. Keith’s determination is admirable but would get him nowhere. Trying again, Lotor bares his teeth, biting the word out: “ _Yield._ ”

Keith continues his fruitless struggling for a few more ticks before falling limp beneath him.

“I yield.”

Lotor immediately lifts his weight from Keith’s hands, rolling off him and standing in a smooth motion. When he offers his hand, the former prisoner glances at it before looking at his face, and back to his hand. Keith stares for so long that the Prince thought he might refuse, leaving him to stand with his hand outstretched like an idiot, but eventually places his own hand in Lotor’s, allowing the Prince to lift him up. 

“You’re confused,” Keith states, looking vaguely confused himself.

Lotor hums, “More puzzled than anything else.” Keith doesn’t say anything, so he continues, “you dodged my attacks like you already knew what I was going to do. How?”

A breathless chuckle escapes Keith, the younger glancing up at him through long lashes, “Because I did. Know what you were going to do, I mean.”

He frowns, “you were reading my mind?” _So much for that promise._

“No, no not that,” Keith reassured quickly. “I uh, I guess I could feel your intentions? I knew when to prepare for an attack so that’s what probably made you think I could predict what you were going to do.” 

Ah. It makes sense that a telepath who can read minds with ease could sense another’s intentions without having to read their victim’s mind. Keith must also be an empath since he could feel Lotor’s emotions, even without being inside his head. Of course, he has no way of knowing whether or not Keith is reading his mind, since the earnestness written in the telepath’s visage could very well be a well-crafted lie. 

Regardless of what would probably be the more sensible option, Lotor allows himself to entertain the idea that Keith is actually telling the truth, that he could do all that even without reading another’s mind. It certainly brought on a whole world of possibilities with Keith’s powers: Would Keith be able to know what his opponent will do even before they do? Could Keith capture fully formed thoughts during a fight or only bits and pieces?

Could he plan his own attacks to manipulate the actions of others?

Each thought is more delicious than the last, plans of how to best exploit his general’s strengths on the battlefield giving way to a startlingly clear image:

Keith standing before a battlefield of fallen enemies, the foreign planet’s sunset painting him in the colors of a dying flame. His general stands bloody, face littered with cuts and bruises but still undeniably beautiful, breathing in the thrill of conquest, eyes alight with adrenaline. The ancient power that currently lays dormant wrapping around his lithe frame, spilling out into the surrounding air.

They’re dangerous- these fantasies. Born from the misguided belief that trust may be possible and fueled by desire, festering like an old wound until the only thing he can focus on is that dull ache, helpless to stop it’s growth until it encompasses him like the flame of a dying star.

He could stop this, he _should_ stop this- this slow descent into madness, a pleasure that turns just as painful the very moment he’s betrayed.

And yet, he doesn’t want too.

“Soooo-” Ezor starts, dragging Lotor from his internal musings. Both him and Keith turn to her expectantly, finally noticing how the other generals had ceased their own sparing and instead watched the pair. “-what can you do?”

Lotor watches as Keith’s brow pinches in confusion, “What?”

“You know, Axca has super amazing sharpshooter skills, Zethrid is freakishly strong, Narti has mind control powers, I can go invisible, and Lotor’s our frighteningly smart leader.” She pauses, “What can _you_ do?”

Keith inhales, clearly about to speak when Ezor interrupts him, “Well of course besides the mind reading, sensing the location of others or whatever you do with auras, and whatever you did to make me trip because I do not have poor motor skills.” 

The only she earned was a blank stare from the telepath, causing her to sigh dramatically, “Ugh, what freaky ability do you have? Like the one that made Lotor go crazy trying to find a way to free you from the Druids for almost an entire decapheob.”

Keith opened his mouth but pauses, clearing trying to piece together the words to tell his story and began speaking, but not before sending Lotor a glance that almost borders on teasing. “I uh, I’ve always been super sensitive to quintessence. That’s why the druids took such an interest in me. Due to all their experimenting, I can now manipulate any surrounding quintessence along with my own.”

“This heighted my sensitivity to quintessence, and eventually I gained the ability to connect to other’s minds since we’re all basically made of the same cosmic dust.” He finishes, fidgeting under the stares of all the generals (bar Narti).

“Manipulate quintessence in what way?” Axca askes, her stony tone it making it sound more like a demand.

Ezor cut in before Keith could speak again, “He made me trip!”

“Like telekinesis,” came the disgruntled reply, the telepath sending Ezor a withering glare.

“I suppose Axca would like a demonstration,” Lotor says, and Axca nods. 

Keith sighs and glances around the room, gaze landing on the wall full of available weapons. All at once, as if hundreds of hands were lifting them, the assortment of knives, swords, guns, rifles, and even battle axes lifted off the wall, racing towards them with alarming speed. 

They all come to a stop merely inches from the semi-circle he and his generals had formed around Keith, and when the prince turned to face the telepath-

_Oh?_

Intrigue bubbles up inside him as Lotor takes in Keith’s appearance, because where Keith’s eyes had been purple flames surrounded by while sclera, his iris and pupil now turned into thin slits surrounded a sea of pale yellow. The slit of his pupils are distinctly Galran, almost feline in appearance and a perfect reminder of Keith’s heritage.

Gradually, Keith’s eyes return to normal. First starting with his irises and pupils, then his sclera. At the same time, he had returned the weapons to their designated places on the far wall. 

“Damn,” came Zethrid’s hushed praise, and Lotor silently agreed. 

Axca clears her throat, turning back from where she had watched him replace the weapons like a hawk. Despite her obvious effort to remain expressionless, her face betrayed her cautious awe.

“You said you can manipulate the surrounding quintessence.” Regardless of it being a statement, Keith nods, almost warily. She continues, “but what about manipulating your own quintessence?”

“I’m guessing you want another demonstration,” Keith drones, clearly not appreciating being regarded and studied like a museum display. Axca only nodded.

Lotor watches closely as the young man lifted his hand palm facing the ceiling. A swirling ball emerges moments later from his upturned palm, a gyrating mass of colors ranging from red to purple. The colors never blend perfectly, making the orb appear to be made up of different liquids, all unable to mix and yet beautiful, nonetheless. 

Keith cleaned his fist and with a flash the ball forms a glowing sword in his hand. It was only when the half-Galra lifted it up so they could look at it easier that Lotor realizes what it is. 

Quintessence.

Keith made a sword out of _his own quintessence_. Sure, telekinesis and telepathy are extremely dangerous weapons in their own right, and when combined deadly beyond conception. But the ability to weaponize one’s own quintessence on _top_ of that?

Well, now he knows why the Witch was so determined in keeping him hidden. 

“Is…” Ezor starts, “is that your… quintessence?”

Keith shrugs, “yeah.”

“Uh, don’t you need that?” she asks, looking concerned but in awe, “You know, to _live_?

This time, Narti, who Lotor had almost forgot was there, responds, speaking to them silently. _He should be fine as long as he returns it to himself after using it._

“Yeah,” Keith says, “I prefer using normal weapons, because after a while it gets harder and harder to control.”

“But you were in a prison this entire time,” Zethrid questions, “how could you know your preference for a weapon?”

“Because after using it during one of my numerous escape attempts, I’ve come to the decision that I would like something doesn’t that tries to escape my grasp and run rampant at any chance it gets,” Keith replies, scowling.

“I’m sure Zethrid meant no harm,” Lotor speaks up, trying to ignore how he’s become more and more of a mediator between his generals and their newest companion. Keith turns to face him, fixing him with an amused stare that reveals that he had probably thought the very same thing.

All irritation at the discovery dissipates at the sight of those galaxy eyes, dark and mysterious and oh so candid in their nature. Lotor has to fight the rising urge to throw caution to the wind and believe in his pretty general’s oath, regardless of the repercussions. It had been a mistake, to entertain the possibility of trust, of their future being more than a mutually beneficial partnership. It had been a mistake, because now all he wants is that distant fantasy, to believe in that well-cultivated lie and pretend that everything may be alright.

Yearning may not be the most foreign sentiment for the Prince, but it’s still unsavory in its presence, both unnecessary and unwanted. Still, he is helpless to the emotion, fighting a constant battle against inclination that he may not even want to win. 

It’s foolish, really, and the others would agree in a heartbeat, but Lotor _wants._ Wants to trust, to believe, to take his newest ally under his wing so they may raze entire battlefields of their enemies.

Desire is a dangerous thing, and Sa knows it had already screwed him over in the past.

The others couldn’t know, not about his internal turmoil, nor about what had caused it. Indecisiveness could easy be mistaken as weakness, and though none of his generals had made an attempt on his life as of yet, he certainly doesn’t want to give them a reason to.

He clears his throat, shaking the thoughts from his mind and lowering his voice into a dangerous purr, “Anyways, how about we see just exactly what you can do with that sword?”

And if Keith’s responding grin makes his stomach twist with foreign heat, no one has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow ok this took alot longer than expected (mostly because of my own negligence), but oh welllll. There might be art added to this chapter sometime in the future depending on how the end result turns out. I'll let ya'll know.


	6. The nuns in this story are evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bending over, Keith retches onto the cold, unforgiving floor, bracing one hand on the control panel and the other at his hip. The memory is a new one, though undeniably from his time as one of the druid’s experiments. Though, he remembers most of his time with the druids, either they wiped part of his memory or he subconsciously blocked out the worst of the memories in a last ditch effort to retain some part of his sanity.
> 
> Turns out he might get to remember after all.

Keith drops to his knees, using his momentum to slide between the sentry’s legs, slicing its thighs. The blade slashes through the unarmored joint of its knee, cutting through metal with a shriek of protest that mixes with the sounds of his labored breaths.

Everything had been going well. After all, it is a simple infiltration mission: sneak in, get intel, sneak out. Easy. Or it should have been. Each general was sent to do some distant corner of the universe to complete whatever ridiculous task Lotor had given them, each supposed to be essential to his _plans._

One of the steadily growing problems with this arrangement is that no one knows what his plans actually are. The Prince refuses to go into any detail regarding them, leaving all Keith and the other generals on a need-to-know basis. Apparently, according to both Ezor and Zethrid, it’s a common thing for the older Galra to do. And yet, even after several phoebs, Keith has yet to get used to it.

It is _infuriating_.

Keith wants nothing more than to delve into Lotor’s mind and search the hordes of information there. He needed to know, to _understand_ , if not to better prepare for missions to come, then at the very least to abate his roaring curiosity. But he had made a promise, practically an oath, not to read the others’ minds or search their memories; so unless he grabs the Prince by his shoulders and shakes until secrets are spilled from lilac lips, he just has to deal with not knowing.

Unlike the others who are probably enjoying destroying Galra bases at random (Ezor and Zethrid), or hunting an extremely dangerous space animal for the resources in its stomach (Axca), Keith was given the task to infiltrate one of Haggar’s many labs for the information there.

The first thing that could’ve been read as a warning sign – that he pointedly ignored in favor of simply hoping for the best – was how barren the ship was when he arrived and docked in a seemingly abandoned hangar. Only the soft hum of the engines coupled with the purple lights revealed that the ship wasn’t entirely forsaken, regardless of Keith not seeing any living crew members even after half a varga on the ship.

Everything had been silent, and not the nice silent. It wasn’t the silence of a night sky, of two friends comfortable with the other’s company, the bit of calm before the start of a song. No, it was the quiet before a desert storm, one that makes the hair on the back of Keith’s neck prick up, instincts itching for him to flee from some threat that still remains unnoticed.

This feeling had been the second thing that came off as wrong, even more so than any other enemy ship.

The third, and maybe the most alarming, was that it was _easy._ Keith snuck into the main command center without even seeing a sentry, even though they’re scheduled to make their rounds every couple dobashes. So yeah it was easy, too easy, for Keith to download the first half of the information and climb back into the ventilation system, where he then made his way to the second command center.

In hindsight, that was probably where everything went wrong.

Haggar is many things: secretive, cruel, dangerous, but she isn’t stupid. Unlike the majority of Galran battle cruisers, she specifically designed her ships so that it’s impossible to access all of the ship’s systems or information through one location. What made it even harder for any possible spies, is that the two command centers are situated on opposite sides of the ship from each other.

The area surrounding the second command tower is supposed to have nearly thrice the security as the first, but except for the random cleaning bot, there were no signs of activity at all, sentry or soldier. Still, Keith moved to the gaps between the sentry shifts, and when he could, climbed through the ventilation shafts.

After some time, far longer than if he’d just walked, Keith removes the ceiling tile and drops to the floor of the second command center with barely a thud. Like the rest of the ship, the room is devoid of any activity other than him. Not trusting it to stay that way, Keith made quick work of typing in the security code Lotor had given him before hand and started downloading the intel.

Information on some of the Druid’s less secure/secretive experiments (arena fighters, common slaves, etc.) are often stored in these kinds of ships, along with some recordings of their actions and measurements. What Lotor needs with this kind of information, remains a mystery as of yet.

On the display screen are a list of the prisoners who have the unfortunate fate of being sent to the Arena, forced to fight to the death for the reward of better living conditions, and of course, their lives. Keith lets his eyes roam through them with disinterest while he waits on the download time. In his position as one of Lotor’s generals, he doesn’t have the influence to vouch for the freedom of any of them, no matter how much he wants to.

Eventually, he glances to the opposite screen, showing some of the more successful gladiators. After about another thirty ticks of indifferent scanning, his gaze latches onto the face of the man in the number one spot.

_No._ Not him. Anyone but him.

No name other than _Champion_ is written, but none is needed. In the background, the dull beeping of his data-cell signals that the download is complete, but Keith can’t bring himself to rip his eyes from the image.

He can’t, because those were the gunmetal eyes of _Takashi Shirogane_ staring at him, the eyes of his friend, his <i> _brother </i>._

If he does his math right, Shiro is now somewhere around 25, but he looks older, far too old. His eyes which are normally filled with a spark of joy, are dull and haunted. The small tuff of hair that flops over his forehead is longer, and a shocking white color. A long scar lay across his face, cutting from cheek to cheek and across his nose.

Nausea rolls in his gut, his throat closing up as if someone had stabbed a knife through his neck. He’s suffocating, drowning in a bottomless ocean that only gets deeper until it feels like he might implode from the pressure. Keith opens his mouth to breath, only to let out a chocked hiccupping sound, his breath rising into his throat but never escaping past his mouth.

_What did they do to you?_

Without a second thought, Keith pulls up the rest of Shiro’s profile, recoiling as if struck when he takes in the metal arm, replacing his right one. While its design is simple, the arm is clearly the work of the druids.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers once he finds his voice, the words barely any more than a breath. “I’m so sorry Shiro.” Keith hates to think of Shiro going through _that_ , the very same torture that Keith had experienced had lived through.

_-a fire in his lungs, pain that spreads through every limb in his body until Keith is certain that he’s burning, despite the biting cold surrounding him. Though, maybe the cold is burning him, maybe the stabbing needles are actually pricks of flame, maybe it’s the electricity they had used on him barely a varga prior. Whatever it is, the pain it causes rips the air from his lungs in the form of a scream, a stream of bubbles leaving his lips to float to the surface of whatever glass chamber they’re holding him in._

_Though the liquid he’s being held in coats his skin like syrup, it is anything but. It stings where it touches his skin, which is to say everywhere, igniting his flesh and peeling his skin away, stripping the meat from his body until Keith is sure not even his bones would be left._

_His lungs burn, and yet he can’t stop screaming-_

Bending over, Keith retches onto the cold, unforgiving floor, bracing one hand on the control panel and the other at his hip. The memory is a new one, though undeniably from his time as one of the druid’s experiments. Though, he remembers most of his time with the druids, either they wiped part of his memory or he subconsciously blocked out the worst of the memories in a last ditch effort to retain some part of his sanity.

Turns out he might get to remember after all.

After Keith’s absolutely certain that his stomach is empty, and that the vomiting had dissipated into dry heaving, he rights himself, swaying slightly on his feet and retrieving the data-cell, closing Shiro’s open profile.

Keith had never wanted to go to Central Command, since that was where he’d most likely run into either Zarkon or Haggar or – god-forbid - _both_ , and seeing that he wants absolutely nothing to do with them, the wise decision would be to avoid Central Command at all costs. But now he almost wishes he’s on that ship, if only to be close enough to talk to Shiro, even if it is only telepathically.

As he prepares to climb back into the vents, Keith’s interrupted by the blaring of alarms, ceiling lights changing from purple to red, casting the entire room into crimson. With a curse, Keith clambers into the vents, replacing the ceiling tile.

He crawls through the vents, using the display map on his arm as a guide. When he got to the point where the vents ended, he casts his awareness out like a net, searching for any hint of lifeforms. Finding none, and not hearing the mechanical marching of any sentries, Keith drops to the ground, clinging to the shadows that run along the walls.

Although the alarms were blaring, there are still no other signs of security. No robot sentries patrolling, no soldiers guarding important entrances or rooms, and no sign of the sole druid that is permanently stationed on the ship.

Keith tries to conjure up reasons for the alarms to go off but was interrupted by all the doors lining the stretch of hallway he was running down opening with a synchronized hiss. He pauses, skidding to a stop as sentry upon sentry march out the open doors, blasters already trained on him.

“Well shit,” he swears, drawing the sword from where it was sheathed at his side. His clothes resemble a common rebel’s outfit, dark cloak wrapping around his lithe frame and hood drawn, casting his masked face into shadow.

Keith dodges the first shot, launching towards the sentry and slicing through it, wasting no time lingering there by attacking the next. Then the next. And the next.

The robots attacked him in a ceaseless wave, armored bodies blocking the hallway and thus the only way to get to the docking bay and to his ship. So Keith fights on, yanking his blade from a metal sheath, slicing sentry upon sentry, leaving a trail of twitching corpses and fizzing wires in his wake.

He yelped as a searing pain laced through his thigh, twisting around to stab the robot that shot him. Keith pushes the pain to the back of his mind, not bothering to look down at the gunshot wound that is surely there.

Mechanical phrases of “intruder” and “stand down” are interrupted by his labored pants, the clang of his sword against metal and the blast of lasers drowning out them both. Taking hold of the surrounding quintessence, Keith sends a wave of near-solid energy, sending robots crashing into the walls, forming a narrow passageway for him to slip through.

As he breaches the large metal doors that lay at the end of the hallway, he turns back, using his telekinesis to shut the doors before any of his pursuers could slip in. Keith finds himself in one of the circular storage rooms, lined with rows of yellow glowing cylinders filled with quintessence. They’re held in large glass cylinders and held in place with five grey clasps that cling to the glass like elongated metal fingers.

Only the soft pads of his limping steps along with the ship’s hum filled the room. It seemed that the sentries were not permitted in the room, which was a good thing, but also meant that he would be met with a swarm of them once he tried to leave.

If he truly wanted too, he could always leave in one of the escape pods instead of going through the hassle of returning to the same port where he left his ship, but- no matter how foolishly -he had grown attached to the small fighter after countless close calls and impromptu missions. It’s a foolish sentiment, one that may even result in further injury, and yet he can’t let that little fighter jet go.

Keith continues to walk through the spiraling rows of quintessence, blade held in front of him as he uses his power to scourer for life forms, all his senses straining to find signs for company.

It was only when he stood in the center of the room that he notices it, the sole druid standing in the shadows between two glowing quintessence containers. Keith’s shocked stare meets their bone white mask, marked with five eyes arranged in a rough half circle. The mask itself is pointed at the chin, forming a shape that’s almost an upside-down tear drop.

Furthermore, it reminds Keith of one of the old plague doctor masks from Earth, sparking a painfully wistful feeling in his chest as he thinks of the planet that had once been his home. The druid’s dark robes pool at their feet, flowing off their form like liquid darkness.

Keith reaches out with his mind only to feel… nothing? Where emotions usual flow and mix like watercolor paint there was only an alarming absence, their mind completely devoid of emotions or feelings. No wonder he could sense their presence, they didn’t have one. The only thing he could feel from them was the _absence_ of their quintessence, like they were sucking the life out of the surrounding air.

Keith sheathes his sword. His blade - normal Galran steel as it is - wouldn’t do anything against the Druids. Only rare metals like Luxite and Altean steel, could harm them, and of course, quintessence.

Taking a moment to ground himself, Keith draws the ball of quintessence out of him slowly, never taking his eyes off the shadowed form of the druid. His quintessence lengthens into the familiar form of his sword, sending warmth spreading through the palm of his hand and up his arm, letting him become synced to the sword until it’s just a deadly extension of his arm.

Keith darts across the room, bringing the blade in a sweeping arc. He wouldn’t be able to leave the room until the druid is dead and negotiating with the puppets of the Empire is futile.

Normal followers of the Church are no problem. Although somewhat strange, they are usually docile, normal citizens who happen to follow and worship Sa and the void. Some of the more dedicated followers even go as far as to abandon all other concerns in favor of following the supposed teachings of Sa and don’t bother with the other activities of the Empire. Druids are also followers of Sa but take their faith to a completely different level: sacrificing not just their time but their life and body to the void.

Frequently, they aren’t even given a choice, their parents deciding to complete the ritual as soon as they were born. Voidsworn are both widely respected and feared, even in the Empire. Their very existence belongs to the eternity of Sa, and all the beings that reside in the void, granting them immortality in the mortal world.

Not just anyone could swear themselves to the void, only individuals who are born into it and gifted the chance by Voidsworn parents could become a druid. Once a druid, they gain the ability to manipulate raw quintessence to fit their needs, a result of having provided themselves to the denizens of Sa as vessels.

Zarkon’s Witch, Haggar, is often depicted as the first druid, earning her the title as High Priestess. Keith doesn’t know whether this is true, it could all be complete and utter bullshit made up because she’s Zarkon’s right hand, but she’s still the leader of the Druidic Church, and infinitely powerful.

It is said that she is the vessel of Sa itself, giving her the control over the rest of the druids. And just like the rest of the Empire, there are ranks amongst the druids, those more powerful and work closer to Haggar being of higher command, and those newly sworn given more mundane tasks, or as mundane as a druid’s task could be.

As of now, it’s impossible for Keith to discern what rank they are at this distance, so he’s virtually going in blind in terms of what exactly he’s up against. Keith continues his sprint towards where the druid stands, thigh throbbing in time with his pounding heart, sharp pain lacing through his leg every step. It was only when he swings at them, sword slashing in a streak of crimson and purple sword, that he gets the first clue regarding their rank:

Just as he reaches the robed figure, they disappear in a cloud of dark smoke, only smoldering wisps evidence of their former presence.

Keith curses. They are certainly on the more powerful side if they could teleport. Tracking their movements through the minute disturbances in the surrounding quintessence, he finds them heading towards the opposite side of the room, near the entrance, leaving him to give chase with another muttered curse.

The druid appears before him, waiting again until he’s _just_ close to strike before teleporting to a different part of the room. They now stand perched on one of the many quintessence containers, regarding him with an almost mocking tilt of their head.

Rationally, he knows that they’re only trying to tire him out, but at the sight of the mask, he’s thrown back onto a metal table, electricity seared into his skin and Haggar’s cackling laughter filling his ears. He can’t move, can’t _breathe_ , can’t do so much as blink as his vision goes hazy and eyes burn, forced to stare at the metal ceiling and the bone white masks of the druids.

Gritting his teeth, Keith launched himself at the druid again and again, only to be avoided each time. The sword is beginning to get unsteady, quintessence festering and growing, greedily ripping more of his life force away in search of a victim to flay. He’d have to end this quick.

The druid continues to dance around him, just out of reach, just out of his grasp. With a yell he hurls his sword towards where the druid stands, almost piercing their cloaked body before they disappear again, reappearing right behind him.

Keith barely has enough time to turn around before he’s flying, struck by a ball of fizzling quintessence. It races through him like electricity, tearing a shriek from his lips, and making his legs wobble, knees giving out resulting in him barely able to avoid face planting by moving his aching arms.

Hearing the tell-tale sound of crackling quintessence, Keith drops to the ground and rolls to the side before the ball of raw energy strikes where he had just been, hitting the floor and shredding the metal layers until there’s a gaping hole in the floor. Standing on protesting legs, he dodges the next shots, never keeping his eyes off the druid.

It’s only when he tries to concentrate just enough to draw more quintessence from his body to reform the sword that they hit him again, this time sending him flying up and into one of the pale-yellow cylinders of harvested quintessence.

Another scream of pain is wrenched it’s way from his lungs as he collides with the container, the pungent liquid spewing out and coating him in a slick sheen. Keith hisses as he stands, shards of glass plunging deeper into his back as he shifts. Not allowing himself to linger any longer, he dives to the side once more, narrowly missing being hit by another deadly blast.

Keith weaves between the rows of cylinders, clinging to the cool walls and relying on the shadows to conceal him. The throbbing in his thigh was merely a dull ache compared to the sharp waves of agony that laced through his back with every movement of his arms.

Summoning the fringes of his concentration, Keith manages to summon the sword once more, trembling as it consumes more and more of his quintessence. If he hadn’t been attacked right after throwing it, he could’ve absorbed the energy to somewhat maintain his dwindling life force. Unfortunately, the druid is either an excellent planner, or knows to take an opportunity when they see one because all his concentration was shattered as soon as the orb touched his skin, severing his connection with the sword.

Trying to stop the trembling that had taken over his clammy hands, he frantically wipes his face, digging his nails into the of the pungent sheen as itchiness spreads over his skin. Keith flinches when he draws blood, removing his hand from his face and gaping when he catches sight of the back of his hand.

Purple splotches cling to his skin, pulsing and squirming as if they have a mind of they’re own. A swipe of his thumb against the substance reveals that it isn’t something on his skin, but rather it _is_ his skin. The purple is a pastel lavender, a sharp contrast to the yellow residue on him.

Absently, he licks his lips and immediately regrets it as a sour taste fills his mouth. Numbly, Keith realizes that he just ingested some of the harvested quintessence, but pushes the thought to the back of his mind in favor of focusing on creeping around the perimeter of the room and trying to find a way to kill the increasingly annoying druid.

The vessel itself can be destroyed, but it’s a difficult task to get the host to release the body, as they tend to cling on the druid’s essence until the very end. Even if the druid is only half conscious, the being that had made its home in the druid’s body can control them like a puppet on strings, reducing them to an empty husk. The only way to defeat a druid is to sever the entity’s connection to the body’s quintessence, so Keith would have to make sure they were absolutely one hundred percent dead.

Despite the blood loss that will eventually kill him if he doesn’t get treatment anytime soon, his senses are clear, sharper than he has ever experienced. Keith catches his distorted reflection in one of the glass containers, watching with dull fascination as his image stretches and contorts, and instantly knows why.

Where the whites of his eyes once were, there is now only a pale-yellow sclera, his pupils sharpening to dark slits. His ears are lengthened, similar to an elf’s, explaining how the ship’s hum became a dull drone that falls just on the wrong side of brassy, and how he could now hear the movements of the sentries just beyond the door. A quick look inside his mouth reveals elongated canines that matches other Galra’s, just significantly shorter to suit him proportionately. His nails are longer too, now resembling claws more than anything else.

Keith doesn’t have a lot of time to ponder these changes as the druid appears before him, sending another blast of sizzling quintessence towards him, apparently having followed the trail of blood Keith had left behind.

Keith doesn’t know exactly what happened next, only barely noticing that he could now sense the druid’s presence and not just their absence and the disturbance in the surrounding quintessence, but that revelation was dismissed by the smoldering orb of energy racing towards his face.

Or, at least it would have hit his face, but as soon as he registered the danger he was standing on the other side of the room, despite not having taken a step.

“Interesting,” came the hushed voice of the druid, dry and croaking and clearly a struggle as they teleport near him once more, “…Interesting, indeed.”

“What do you want?” Keith askes, overwhelmed about the fact that he had somehow moved across the room without knowing how he did it- and did the druid just _talk_?

“To be left alone with my duty,” the druid states blithely, “but you wouldn’t allow that would you?” They step towards him, clawed hand stroking their mask in a cruel imitation of someone rubbing their chin. “No, you, like every other foolish mortal, wish to live, blind to the reality of what is actually happening in this temporary world.”

They stop, barely ten feet away from him, “Although, I suppose you have something inside of you. Your powers alone are evidence of this.”

“Will you just shut up?” Keith barks, raising his sword.

The druid laughs, the sound closer to stones grating together than anything of humor, “You poor thing,” they croon, “you don’t even know what you _are_.”

Slowly, in order to avoid catching their attention, Keith unfastens the clasps of the glowing cylinder behind them, lifting the object using the quintessence surrounding it. The clasps slide to the floor without a sound, and the container is lifted without any other problems.

“I don’t know what I am,” he concedes, “I don’t know if I’m human, if I’m Galra, and I certainly don’t know what creatures or powers you monsters put inside me.” The container is almost on top of them now, the yellow glow encasing the druid’s robes slowly growing brighter.

“But that doesn’t matter, not now,” Keith shrugs, and the druid tenses, gaze growing searching, “I know who I am.”

With that, Keith drops the container on them, leaping back as the glass shatters around their soaked form. Feeling their presence behind him he spins, ducking from another attack that would’ve sent him crashing into another quintessence canister and sending his blade in a slashing arc across their chest.

The sword tears fabric and flesh from their drenched form, accompanied by a shriek. The sound pierces his brain like a nail being drilled into his skull until it feels like his brain may split in half. Drops of hot pink blood seep off the many glass shards in the druid’s soaked body, but it’s nothing compared to the steady stream coming from the gash reaching from their left shoulder down to their opposite hip.

They teleport again, but their presence is heavier somehow, quintessence dragging behind them like a trail of blood, seeping into the air and surrounding him until he might choke. It’s unpleasant, but enough for him to predict where they’re planning to materialize, to track where it trails behind them, never quite catching up.

Just before the ghost-image catches up to the druid, Keith hurls his sword to the spot they would converge, the blade piercing the druid just as they surfaced from whatever shadow realm they go to whenever travelling from point to point in the ‘mortal world’ as they put it.

A low groan escapes their robed form, sputtering veins of glowing quintessence stretching from them. Keith wastes no time running towards where they lay prone on the ground, calling his sword back to his palm and bringing it down in the scant space between their mask and collar bone, successfully severing their head from their body.

After stabbing them a couple more times - not because they’re annoying and injured him badly and if he could have the satisfaction of stabbing them, even if it’s their corpse he was going to take advantage of it, _but to be safe_ \- Keith walks towards the door opposite from where he entered, dragging their headless corpse behind him.

Gingerly, Keith lifts the body so that he could press their hand against the control panel beside the door, giving it the command to open. He quickly fled to the hangar where he left his ship, remembering to drop the corpse somewhere half-way there.

His labored pants and the uneven pattern of his limping steps fill the quiet stretch of hallway but was overridden by the hissing of the door to the hangar as he opened it. Keith breathed out a sigh of relief as he took the last limping steps to his small fighter jet and collapsed into the soft fabric of the pilot’s chair.

Belatedly, Keith notices his consciousness slipping, and types in the stolen command for the hangar doors to open and for his ship to be recognized as one of the Empire’s fighters. Another few clicks and the ship takes the automated route back to Lotor’s cruiser, his fingers wavering over the data pad until his arms go limp, and Keith succumbs to the lull of sleep.

-

Keith wakes to the view of light grey ceiling tiles, a quick glance at his surroundings disclosing the room in which he lay as the cruiser’s med bay. Currently, the medical wing is abandoned save for the medical robots stationed there.

A glimpse down at himself reveals his bandaged body, dressed in only the sterile binds wrapping around the majority of his chest, waist and thigh, and a pale blue medical robe. On the table next to him sits a water pouch, unopened with a straw lying next to it. Placed innocently next to it is a note written in Ezor’s looping handwriting:

_Lotor’s gonna have your ass._

Keith snorts. As if he doesn’t already know that. The Prince – regardless of his admirable effort to hide it to the best of his ability - worries excessively about his generals’ wellbeing, and certainly doesn’t enjoy it when they came back from missions bloody and beaten. Considering that Keith’s currently sitting in the med bay with no recollection of how he got there, he probably arrived bloody, beaten, _and_ unconscious, and will no doubt get an earful from the other half-Galra.

The splotches of purple that had previously covered wherever the spilled quintessence touched him - ergo his entire body - were gone, and with a quick touch to his ears and a tongue running across his teeth he confirmed that his other features were also gone.

Finding a pile of clothes beside him, Keith quickly sheds his medical robe, wincing as an aching pain fills his entire body, the burn of discomfort throbbing in time with his heart. He manages to fight through the sting as he pushes himself into a sitting position, reveling in the feeling of soft fabric against raw skin.

Finally summoning the willpower to stand up, Keith nearly knocks over his boots where they’re placed at the foot of the metal slab that served as his temporary bed. After pulling the boots on, he moves towards the sliding doors – not quite walking, not quite limping, his movements somewhat of an awkward mix of stiff limbs and too-soft muscles - only for them to hiss open before he was even ten feet from them.

“I swear if he’s still asleep I will personally skin him alive and sacrifice his entrails to Sa,” no doubt that the growled pledge came from Zethrid.

“Honestly, how stupid does he have to be to run into the sole druid on-” Ezor’s voice cuts off abruptly as Keith clears his throat.

“I- uh,” he stammers, “hi?”

Zethrid’s snort and Ezor’s snickered reply of something along the line of “you’re so dead,” quickly fades to the background as Keith notices Lotor standing behind them-

-looking positively _livid_.

“‘Hi’?” the Prince growls, tone matching the palpable _fury_ Keith felt emanating from him. “‘Hi’. That is the first word I hear from you after you’re ship docked and we found you lounging in a pool of your own blood on the floor?”

“Technically, he said ‘I’ first,” Ezor drawls, expression practically dripping in glee.

Lotor snarls, effectively silencing her, “Do I have to remind you what would happen if you were caught?”

“No.”

“They would identify you as one my generals,” Lotor continues anyway, “and with the knowledge that one of my generals is a traitor to the empire, my father would extend the title to the rest of us, or at the very least, keep a closer eye on my movements. Thus, effectively making it impossible for me to complete my plans, plans that I have been working on for the last five thousand decapheobs.”

Keith winces, running a hand through his unruly hair, “Thanks for the refresher.”

If looks could kill, Keith would be a pile of limbs on the floor. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I specifically told you to infiltrate without being seen.”

“Look, sometimes things don’t go as planned-” he starts.

“You had a confrontation with roughly half of the sentries on board, along with the lone druid present, fought with said druid, nearly getting yourself killed or worse,” Lotor deadpans.

Keith steps towards the glowering prince, raising both hands in a placating gesture, “look at it this way, am I dead?”

Lotor’s gaze trails up and down his body, as if actually trying to decide the answer to the question.

“Well, no.”

“Have I been captured and tortured by the Empire?” he smirks.

“Keith-”

“See, there’s no reason to worry,” his grin widens, “although, I’m flattered that you’re concerned about me.”

Lotor scoffs, waving a hand in dismissal, “I assure you, the only thing I’m concerned about is you placing my plans in jeopardy.” With that, he storms off, a growled order to meet him for debriefing in a varga sitting heavy in the air after he left.

“Wellllllll,” Ezor says, drawing out the word to an exaggerated length, “that went better than expected.”

Keith snorts, “he’s probably happy that I managed to get all the intel.”

“I’m pretty sure Axca not being back yet adds to his...” Zethrid pauses, gaze growing distant as she searches for the right word, “…bitchiness.”

Keith chuckles, but his laughter quickly fades as Zethrid’s expression stays sour, matching her feeling of concern and dread.

This piques his interest. Axca is by far the most efficient of them all, and never lingers during or after missions, unlike Zethrid and Ezor’s side adventures. For her to be late to report back after her mission is nearly unheard of. Normally, an event like this wouldn’t cause much concern, missions went wrong or took longer all the time, but Axca is never late.

“Did she communicate at all?”

“Nothing from her the entire mission except for a call saying that she’s approaching the weblum at the beginning.” Ezor states, worry clear in her voice. “We’ve been trying to reach her but there’s been no response.”

“At first,” Zethrid continues for her, “it didn’t cause any concern, the innards of a weblum often block any outgoing calls. But we should’ve heard something back by now.”

While Axca is still cautious of him to this date, a tentative friendship had been formed between the two of them. After all, it’s hard not to develop some form of comradery between teammates after saving each other’s lives countless times. They hadn’t gotten along well at the beginning, but Keith can genuinely say he cares for his fellow general’s well-being.

Now, he almost wishes he doesn’t.

Dread is one of the more familiar emotions in his gut, a result of countless missions and near-death experiences. The sentiment is mainly for himself and a result of whatever situation he’s being thrust in, but on some rare occasions he may feel it for another.

Now with trepidation twisting his stomach into knots, making his throat close uncomfortably around words that bubble out of him unbidden, Keith can confidently say that this is one of those rare moments. At the beginning of his time as one of Lotor’s generals, Keith was fully prepared to let all the other’s die to keep himself alive, and was searching for a way out of the arrangement as long as it would benefit him.

Now… he can’t say the same.

Despite his best efforts, he had grown attached to these tentative friendships and the people they are shared with, a mistake that can only end in regret and agony.

And yet here he is.

“Unless we track down the same weblum and go in after her, we can’t really do anything.” When Ezor seems to be genuinely considering the idea, Keith quickly adds, “And even then, we have a chance of endangering her by setting off the weblum’s internal defenses.”

Axca’s mission is arguably the most dangerous of them all. While they usually ignore other lifeforms in favor of consuming dead planets, a weblum’s internal organs are equipped with natural defenses, unmistakably deadly. Axca would have to sneak into the weblum without triggering any of said defenses, find it’s third stomach with only a very old instructional video as a guide, then collect the scaltrite and escape without dying.

So yeah, tricky stuff. 

Ezor sighs, “yeah I guess.”

“So what? We’re just gonna let her die?” Ezor’s indignation is a sour tang in the air, thick and heavy. Despite knowing that Ezor would never try to hurt him, let alone have the power to do so, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end as she bares her teeth as him, eyebrows pinched together and glare vicious.

“I think we should trust Axca,” Keith softens his voice, not for his sake but for Ezor’s, “She’s probably the best at making the right decisions besides Lotor, and she’s more than capable of carrying out this mission.”

When Ezor deflates, anger fizzling back into concern, Keith adds, “We’re all worried about her- hell, you saw how Lotor’s acting! But rushing in now could make the situation a lot worse for her.”

It’s truly ironic that _he’s_ the one saying this.

Ezor’s silence weighs heavy on the three of them, enough for Zethrid to put a hand on her shoulder, a comforting gesture that only her girlfriend seems to receive. After another few ticks, Ezor sighs, sullenness replaced by amusement and a dangerous glee that Keith does not like _at all._

“Soooooooo,” Ezor chirps, her grin making his gut twist in horror.

“SorryIneedtogo-” his jumbled words end abruptly as he’s yanked by the collar of his shirt, stumbling back from where he attempted to make his swift exit. After a few more ticks of struggling, Keith resigns himself to his fate, letting his limbs go flaccid as he slumps awkwardly into Ezor’s chest.

She grunts, hooking her arms under his to drag his limp body across the room and to the waiting area for any uninjured people spending their time in the med bay. Upon seeing this display, Zethrid lets out a too-fond chuckle, making her way towards the exit. Just as the doors hiss open, she stops.

“Nice to see you conscious, shorty. Just don’t do that shit again.” With that, she’s gone.

Before Keith could interpret the kindness that _Zethrid_ gave him, Ezor’s dropping him on one of the many plush couches, ridiculously large to the point that it takes up at least half the waiting area.

Keith pointedly avoids Ezor’s smug stare, and somehow this makes her shit-eating grin grow, looking like the cat that got the cream.

“Soooooooo?” Ezor parrots her earlier question, mouth quirking upwards innocently. Keith doesn’t know what she wants him to say – he doesn’t even know what she’s so smug about, only that he doesn’t like it – so he settles for a defeated and rather lame imitation of her inquiry:

“So.”

Ezor lets out an exasperated sigh, draping herself across him like one particularly awkward and armored blanket. Keith had quickly learned that while Galra are very touch oriented, Ezor is even more so. Narti had mentioned that she suspects that it’s due to her non-galra half, or Ezor’s just like that. It had taken some getting used to, and some situations were still a bit uncomfortable, but Keith eventually found himself welcoming her comforting touches and full-body hugs.

“Ugh, Keith don’t be like that,” Ezor wines, but Keith can tell her glee hadn’t abated a single bit. “Anyway, care to tell me how you practically got your ass handed to you by _one_ druid?”

Keith bristles, glaring up at her without any true heat, “I did _not_ get my ass handed to me.”

“You sure about that,” and dear god her delight is so thick it’s close to choking him, “you were pretty beat up.”

Her voice softens a bit at the end, but Keith is far to irritated to try to interpret the reason, “I killed him! I’m pretty sure that beats any injuries he gave me!”

“Yeah,” she purrs, “but you still got deep fried, like, at least once.”

Completely ignoring his begrudging reply of “ _Quintessence blasted_ ,” – which is _rude_ – Ezor continues, “Couldn’t you, I don’t know, just repeatedly stab him with your weaponized life force?”

Keith sighs, _if only it were that simple_ , “If you thought hard enough, you could probably figure it out yourself.” Smirking at Ezor’s squawk, he relents, “It’s just as you said, I’m using my life force. If I pull out a lot, I’m simultaneously stronger and weaker than I am normally.”

She hums, signally for him to continue.

“You can kind of think about it as using my blood to drown someone,” he barely knows what he’s saying, yet the words spill from his mouth unbidden, “the more blood I use, the easier it should be to kill them, thus technically making me stronger. But I would also have less blood left for me and would start dying because of blood loss.”

Ezor jumps up suddenly, pushing her weight to her elbows to look at him properly, “Wait, what?! I thought you said using your power is fine!”

“It is, the moment I return the quintessence,” he assures her, “but while I’m using it, I typically get weaker and weaker.”

He lets her ponder this for a moment, finally resting her head on his chest again. Their position is awkward. Since Ezor is significantly taller than him, the bottom half of her body is on the couch instead of him.

“What happens…” she begins almost hesitantly, “what happens if you can’t return the quintessence?”

Keith shrugs, “Then I’m missing it, my body will have to produce more, which would take some time. I’m not entirely sure, but I think if I draw enough and don’t absorb it again, I’ll either die or my life span is permanently shortened.”

“Oh.” Keith can’t see Ezor’s face in this position, but he can feel her resignation, a defeat that’s not hers to bear creating a bitter patch in her otherwise cheerful personality. “Is there any way to avoid it? You have telekinesis, why not just use that?”

He had thought of it before, to completely refrain from using his own quintessence in favor of utilizing the resources just beyond his fingertips. It worked, somewhat. While not as damaging as drawing the energy out of him, his telekinesis still left him drained, for whatever reason, he still doesn’t know. It’s possible it’s because he needs to use his own quintessence to connect to the surrounding energy, or that quintessence wielding just drains him regardless of the source.

“It’s… different. Yet it has the same result.” Keith replies, “I still get drained and I can’t maintain the connection for very long.”

Ezor’s silent for a long time after that, and Keith’s almost happy she is. The time for her to explore the implications of having his abilities during a time of war is enough for him to reel himself together, to smooth over the raw edges from discussing his own impending doom.

He doesn’t know how much he has left. While it’s a possibility that his life span was boosted by the druid’s experimentation, the very power that was a result of said experimentation is slowly killing him, and the process only getting faster the more he uses it. There’s no way to avoid fighting, he’s caught in the middle of a war after all and avoiding the use of his abilities may not be an option either.

The quintessence purrs in the face of a fight, rising to the surface to pace just underneath his skin, claws scraping against its flesh prison as if it could claw its way out up his throat and out of his mouth. Its hunger never abides, rising to face any challenge, however small.

Even now, when he’s drained and barely healed, it’s seeking its next prey, fixating on the nearest lifeform. Of course, it happens to be Ezor, blissfully unaware of the turmoil happening just underneath his skin, of the claws reaching to tear her open and devour her until only her memory is left.

Keith manages to suppress it, pushing the desire, the _need_ down so deep it may as well be seated into his bones. Even then, it reaches towards her mind, feeling her essence just beyond its cage of flesh and bone. He will keep it under control, he would have to, for the sake of the others along with his sanity.

(Although, he isn’t sure how long he can last, with the celestial being slowly tearing down his wall, feasting on his own life force when he doesn’t give it anything else).

He thinks of the druids, how they’re merely puppets for whatever Sa-born creature resides under their skin, how they don’t have any free will of their own, only that of their master. The entities are insatiable, immortal at least on this plane, and unable to maintain their original form with the limited quintessence in the mortal world.

The longer he resists, the stronger it gets, and Keith’s starting to think that he too is becoming merely a puppet for some otherworldly being.

-

As it turns out, Keith never gets the opportunity to debrief with Lotor, or at least it’s delayed when Axca’s ship docks in one of the many hangars of the cruiser.

She’s walking out of her fighter jet, hauling a bag of scaltrite behind her when Keith and Ezor arrive at the hangar. Zethrid and Lotor are already there, the former uncharacteristically talkative, pestering her with questions about her mission and the latter inspecting the Scaltrite.

Narti gets there just after them, presence announced by the waves of relief coming off her as soon as she lays eyes on the hopefully unharmed general.

“What took you so long?” Zethrid teases, “did General Axca finally loose her edge?”

_What Zethrid means,_ Narti’s exasperation is tangible, _is that we were all worried about you._

“I ran into some trouble,” Axca states.

“Yeah, that much is obvious,” Ezor quips.

Axca sighs, her disheveled appearance matching the bone-weary exhaustion emitting from her, “I got stuck after the weblum practically absorbed half of my ship. I needed help getting free and collecting the Scaltrite.”

Lotor’s head shot up, voice cautious as he asks, “What kind of help? And from whom?”

Axca runs a hand through her hair, something she does when she’s trying to think of the best way to say something. “Some rebels, who also need scaltrite. One of them freed me and didn’t immediately kill me after finding out that I’m Galra. They didn’t figure out who I am though.”

Lotor’s gaze was still on her, calculating and analyzing. “They weren’t just any rebels.”

Axca scratches the back of her neck with an almost sheepish expression, “One was… Altean.”

“ _What?_ ” Lotor demands, his usual smooth demeanor gone in the face of outrage. It’s not as if his outburst isn’t understandable, Keith wholeheartedly agrees, but it’s so unlike his indifferent personality that it leaves Keith reeling.

If anything would make _Lotor_ like this, it would be the news of an Altean that had somehow avoided the mass genocide brought on by the Empire. Of course, Lotor was spared, if only because he’s half Galra and - more importantly – Zarkon’s son. Though, his title as Prince of the Galra Empire means nothing now that he’s turned against his own father, privately or not.

Axca still hasn’t responded to Lotor’s growled inquiry, unease rolling off her in waves. Narti shifts her weight from one foot to another beside him, and Keith knows she can feel it too.

“What aren’t you telling us?” Lotor asks, urgency still apparent in his voice.

She winces, “The other rebel, they called her ‘Princess’.” Her gaze is steady even as her voice shakes, never breaking eye contact with Lotor, “He called her Allura.”

Lotor _flinches,_ and as if that isn’t shocking enough, he opens his mouth then closes it, gaping as if gasping for air. In any other situation, the sight would have been hilarious: Prince Lotor becoming the perfect mockery of a fish, if not for the dread curling around the older Galra’s tall frame. It’s accompanied by something too complex to explain, melancholy and relief wrapped together, along with an intrigue that leaves the emotion just short of a desperate kind of longing.

Lotor swallows, pulling himself back together to form a mask of attempted indifference. It doesn’t work.

“It seems…” he pauses, “…it seems that Princess Allura of Altea survived. This is certainly something unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome.”

“Let’s move to the bridge so both you and Keith can inform us about your missions,” he continues, heading towards the sliding doors with a simple wave of his hand to beckon for them to follow, but stops when Axca clears her throat.

“There’s something else,” after making sure she’s captured his attention, she continues, but this time turned to face Keith, “the other rebel, he looked… what is your paternal species called?”

“Human,” Ezor supplies.

“Yes, he looked human,” Axca states, “not exactly like you, but you said that not all humans look the same.” She continues to speak, about how the Altean was hostile and wanted to kill her immediately upon seeing that she’s Galra, but the human stopped her- despite her being a princess - but Keith hears none of it, a single word ringing in his hears over and over again, filling them until that’s the only thing he can hear. The word morphs, changing until it’s merely a sound, a sound that his mind can’t seem to stop screaming.

_Human_.

First he finds out that Shiro is a fighter in the Arena, now a human is part of a rebel group? Had Earth finally been conquered? That’s the only answer, because there’s no other reason for a human to be this far in the universe and would explain how Shiro had ended up fighting for his life in a glorified sand pit.

Keith’s most recently memory about Earth’s future space missions is that there’s a mission to Kerberos planned for a few years after he was abducted. He doesn’t know if they actually went through with the mission, or who the pilots were, but it’s unlikely if the Galran Empire had gotten there beforehand.

_Keith?_ Narti must be speaking to him directly, as her voice isn’t as diluted as when she would talk to the entire group at once. _Are you alright?_

_I’m fine,_ he lies, sending a feeling of false reassurance for emphasis in hope she would buy it. Her feeling of suspicion doesn’t reassure him much.

“I guess Earth has been captured,” he states blandly.

“Oh Keith, I’m so sorry,” Ezor apologizes, and he doesn’t know what he hates more: the look of pity in her eyes, or the understanding that only came from having experienced the same thing.

He shrugs, summoning an air of nonchalance, “It’s fine, it is inevitable.”

“That doesn’t make it any better,” surprisingly – or maybe not, he isn’t sure anymore - it is Axca that assures him next.

Just as the sympathetic stares grow uncomfortable Lotor speaks, “I think we should continue our conversation on the bridge.” No one objects, and they all walked in silence to the wide room lined with panels and screens.

Ezor, unsurprisingly, is the first to break the silence, “So Axca had help from the Princess of a supposedly extinct race who at first had tried to kill her, but was then saved _again_ by another rebel that just happens to be part of Keith’s paternal race from said Princess. Keith got all his intel but was apparently swarmed by sentries and got away relatively uninjured, but then gets positively _demolished_ by the sole druid onboard that should’ve been easy to avoid-”

“I ended up killing him.”

“-then he arrived back here unconscious and covered in so much blood that Lotor nearly had an aneurysm-” Ezor continues before Lotor interrupts her.

“I’m failing to see the connection between Keith’s injury and an aneurysm,” he states almost hesitantly.

“-and he was covered in these weird purple splotches and had pointy ears and claws,” she finally finishes, “So, I’m not quite sure who wins the weirdest mission challenge, but my money’s on Keith.”

“Gee, thanks,” Keith replies.

“Actually, we never got to discuss your mission Keith,” Lotor remarks. “Although, after Narti and I reviewed the intel you brought we had access to the security cameras, so we got first row seats to your little battle with the sentries.”

_Good job with that by the way,_ Narti says.

Keith only hums in response, not knowing if she is being sarcastic or not.

Lotor continues, “But as there is no surveillance present in the druid’s lab, due to the Witch’s partiality for privacy, we have no information on what went on in there. And no information on what triggered your… condition when you arrived here.”

Keith swallowed, using the few moments of silence to gather his thoughts, “I think it was when I was thrown into a giant tube of quintessence.”

_Did you consume any of it?_ Keith can hear the urgency in Narti’s voice even as it’s spread thin to talk to the others.

“Uh, no-” he pauses, distinctly remembering having absent mindedly licked his lips after feeling the sheen on them. “Actually, yeah. I licked my lips at some point after it spilled on me.”

Narti barks a curse, a particularly crude one at that, and Keith blinkes, never hearing her “voice” any form of profanity. _Did anything… weird happen with your abilities? Anything different?_

Keith remembers standing in one place then suddenly in another, the druid’s crooned remark of how ‘you don’t even know _what_ you are’, and after a moment’s hesitation mumbles, “Yes.”

_And what,_ Narti’s voice was deathly calm, too calm, _was different._

“I teleported,” he admits, then spoke to Narti directly. _How’d you know to ask?_

_Something similar happened to me, it was what amplified my powers to the extent that they are now. Right after consuming some of it, I experienced more powers that a druid would have._

_So,_ he paused, hesitant, _is it temporary?_

A feeling of mulling something over, _Depends. Did you drink much?_

_Just licked my lips._

She hums. _Then most likely no, but if during your captivity the druids had prepared you for long term quintessence treatment then maybe._

_Long term quintessence treatment?_ He questioned.

_Basically, they make you into a vessel for a denizen of Sa to operate on the mortal plane,_ Narti explains, _by experimenting on you so that its easier for you to contain the host. They infuse you with quintessence to the point that your powers transition to one of a druid’s. If they had prepared you for it then there’s a chance that some distant ancestor of yours was a druid, and the ritual was discontinued before it could reach you._

_Or,_ she continues, _perhaps it wasn’t._

After a moment of processing the information she practically _hurled_ at him, Keith asks, _Was that the case for you?_

_Not exactly,_ and when she doesn’t explain further, he turned back to face the others once more.

A pregnant silence had stretched on the entire time, ending when Lotor asks, “what color and size was the container.”

Keith thinks for a moment before replying, “It was a really ugly yellow, and seems like regulation size. There were a bunch of them.”

Lotor hums, “there have been stories about how harvested quintessence can cause temporary physical changes when it touches skin.”

“Well at least this explains your… appearance.” the word is punctuated by a blithe wave of Ezor’s hands, gesturing in a sweeping gesture towards his face.

“Indeed, it does,” Lotor replies, but his eyes never leave Keith’s, dancing around his face as if searching for something. “In the short amount of time you were exposed, the quintessence must’ve stimulated some of your dormant genes, the one specifically related to your Galran phenotypes.”

Keith shrugs, deciding to believe the Prince considering that he was taken from Earth before he could take any biology classes, specifically ones about genetics, “I guess that would explain why I was purple.”

Conversation is stilted after that, a few more question directed to both Axca and him regarding security and the rotation of sentries. Eventually, they all looked to Lotor as he clears his throat.

Lotor pulls up the screen displaying a portion of the information that Keith brought back from Haggar’s lab ship. On the rightmost of the panel was a picture displaying a kind of rock. The majority of it is an obsidian black, with lines of glowing green crisscrossing over it like veins.

Immediately, all his attention is riveted on the rock, unable to stop tracing the green streaks with his gaze, no matter how hard he tries to tear his eyes away to read the other information. It’s as if the comet – and he _knows_ it’s a comet, the information a fact that can’t be refuted even though he’s never seen it in his life – is screaming for his attention, regardless of it being merely a picture.

There’s something familiar about it, foreign and more of a home than he’s ever had. Keith can almost hear it calling to him, whispers dancing beneath the surface of his mind, a gentle croon telling him to reach out and-

And?

He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know whether the whispers are just a figment of his imagination, or if they are very much real, just asking him to do something he doesn’t know how. Keith glances away towards the information on the left of the screen, only to return almost immediately, his intrigue not letting him dismiss it. It’s almost like-

_-fingers trace the rise of his cheekbones, feather-light and not entirely real. A caroling voice fills his ears, drawing him closer and closer to the comet, batting away the insistent druids._

_Keith’s distinctly aware of them falling apart around him, flesh melting off bones to form sizzling puddles on the ground, even as he remains unscathed. They reach for him, trying to draw him back even as the entity wraps celestial arms around him, cradling him against it’s rock prison._

_Distantly, as if from a great distance, he hears the Witch barking orders, the arms tightening around him as a result. A fire starts, burning away the approaching druids, filling his lungs with acrid smoke. Keith coughs, choking around it, and gasps when he’s released._

_It’s as if a string is cut, the connection is severed and he’s falling, collapsing limp to the ground like a puppet without strings._

All of a sudden, Keith’s thrown back onto the ship, emerging with fire in his eyes and a tremble in his limbs. The new memory bores into his mind, making a home there amongst all his old ones.

Keith experiences the world as if underwater, like he’s there but not really. The others’ voices are muffled, as if he’s listening to them from a great distance.

“Uh, Lotor?” Zethrid starts, “what’s this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure we’re all flattered that you think so highly of us, but we’re not nearly as smart as you,” Ezor drawls.

“This-” Lotor smirked at them all, clearly smug about knowing something that they didn’t. And yet Keith _knows_ , the knowledge nothing other than fact in his mind. It’s simple, just like ‘the sky is blue’ or ‘you’re part alien’: that strange rock is a comet.

Still, it’s an effort not to scowl, something about that insufferable grin making Keith grit his teeth in… frustration. The prince has a lot of personalities, and I’m-smarter-than-you-and-we-both-know-it-Lotor was one of his least favorites, “-is a trans-reality comet.”

Another long silence passes, broken only when Ezor lets out an awkward cough. “Yeahhh,” she drawls, “mind explaining what that is?”

“With pleasure,” Lotor purs, still with that shit-eating grin on his face, “This comet has unique quintessence that allows it to travel between realities. If we could steal this comet, and build a ship out of it, we would have unlimited access to all other realities.”

“Other realities?” this time, it was Axca who speaks, awe apparent in her voice.

“Indeed,” the prince replies, “there are infinite realities other than this one, something that Haggar has taken a personal interest throughout the years.”

Keith hadn’t paid much mind to the possibility of alternate realities, maybe ponder the implications once in a while when the topic came up, but never thought is was true. The idea of alternate realities, although seemingly probable, didn’t seem real because of the fact that he would never be able to experience it. It seemed impossible, and if anyone were to discover one, it would be thousands of decapheobs in the future.

(Although, even though he believed in aliens, he never thought he meet one, let along _be_ one, yet here he is.)

But now, if Lotor’s plans are to succeed, _he_ would be one of the first to do what he had considered impossible: travel to another reality. Lotor would complete a goal that he had supposedly been working towards for decapheobs, which led yet more questions:

What did Lotor want in the alternate reality? What could be so valuable that Lotor would prioritize getting to an alternate reality over finding ways to end his father’s reign?

A direct approach would be best. Keith is never one for dancing around a subject, instead asking whatever questions and facing a subject head on.

“What are you looking for in these alternate realities?” Keith questions, “What is in the other realities that you can’t get here? What are you searching for that you need to have ‘unlimited access’ to all other realities to get?”

Although Lotor’s expression doesn’t change, Keith gets the distinct impression that the prince is pleased. Why, he doesn’t know, but regardless of the reason, he has to fight a shiver as the taller Galra’s voice drops to a deadly purr.

“Is adventure not a reason enough?”

“For someone else, yes,” Keith concedes, “but you don’t do anything just because. There’s something else you want from this.”

Lotor chuckles, amused smirk dancing across his lips, “How insightful you are.” If Keith’s reading him correctly - which is a difficult task even after all this time - the prince’s voice sounds almost… fond, matching the soft curl of the emotion around his form. It disappears almost as fast as it arose, leaving Keith wondering if it were real or just a figment of his imagination. “But yes, there is something else I am looking for in these alternate realities, or more specially, somewhere else.”

“But you’ll probably keep it from us until the last moment. In order to avoid ruining your plans of course,” Axca’s tone is bitter, bordering on spiteful.

Keith can’t blame her. The Prince’s secretive behavior and habit of keeping all his generals (bar Narti on some occasions) on a need to know basis is a nuisance at best, detrimental at worst. As far as he knows, Zethrid still hasn’t fully forgiven him after Ezor had gotten injured during a mission due to Lotor withholding information.

Lotor’s main argument was that the less they know, the less they could harm the rest of the team’s activities in the case that someone gets captured. Keith could see where he’s coming from, but it wouldn’t do any good if all his generals are dead before they could be of any help.

Zethrid seemed to have agreed, at least with the second part, and had purposely pitted herself against Lotor during sparing the next day, launching him into the far wall with an audible crack without preamble.

A sigh leaves the Lotor’s lips as he runs a hand through his white hair. The action makes him look older, more worn. “Not this time, no. As you all know the Galran Empire relies on vast amounts of quintessence to function properly. This amount had increased drastically after the Fall of Daibazaal.

“Throughout the years,” Lotor continues after seeing their affirming nods, “the Empire has acquired many ways to harvest quintessence, some more sustainable, although by the barest amount, and better than others. Arguably, one of the most obscene methods is through the Komar.”

“Ah yes, the giant quintessence-sucking planet killer,” Ezor drawls, “Haggar’s most precious creation.”

“Instead of searching for ways to harvest quintessence through sustainable methods, the Empire has instead relied on enslaving whole planets and forcing the captured inhabitants to do slave work.” Lotor says, his eyes distant.

Lotor paused, letting the words sink in, though they are all well aware of the fate of enslaved planet, “It is crucial that the Empire has a system for collecting quintessence that doesn’t come at the expense of innocent lives and whole planets. That’s where the alternate realities come in. There is a place, thought to be myth by all others except for the Alteans. It has many names, ranging from religious to scientific, but the most popular one is,” he paused once more, dramatic flair returning to gleam in his eyes, “The Quintessence Field.”

Ezor opens her mouth, no doubt to ask another question, but Lotor cuts her off with a raised hand. “The Quintessence Field, an ancient place that is said to be the portal between this world and Sa, contains unlimited quintessence, quintessence that - if we manage to travel there - we can harness and use in the Empire so that no more worlds would fall to the monstrosity of the Komar.”

“So,” unsurprisingly, it’s Axca who speaks after the long pause, “what’s the plan?”

Lotor grins, sharp canines on display between parted lips, “I’m glad you asked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please ignore that Keith doesn't have boots on in the picture ehehehe
> 
> I would like to say that I'm more of a writer than an artist to justify that monstrosity of a drawing, but unfortunately I'm about average (I think) at them both.
> 
> ANYWAY, this chapter took quite a bit of time, then i realized that while the last one was almost 4,000 words, this chapter is over 11,000... so yeahhhh. I debated splitting it in half, but i decided to go with this instead, so please tell me if this chapter length is alright, too long, or (god forbid) too short. 
> 
> Also, school has started so the next chapter may not be for a while


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